SCSRCH 


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H6-PiCTUR€SQU6 


Asbjorn  P.  Ousdal 


y 


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WELL-WORN  ROADS  OF  SPAIN,  HOLLAND,  AND 
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WELL-WORN   ROADS 


OF 


SPAIN,   HOLLAND,  AND    ITALY 


TRAVELED  BY  A  PAINTER  IN  SEARCH 
OF  THE  PICTURESQUE 


BY 


F.  HOPKINSON   SMITH 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

(Cf)e  ItiUcrsiDc  t?rc0S,  (JTamlinDoe 
1S94 


Copyright,  1886  and  1887, 
By  F.  HOPKINSON   SMITH. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Il/ass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Hougluon  &  Company. 


Sfn  Remembrance  of  the  many  happy  days  we  have  spent 
together,  tramping  and  sketching,  along  roads  well 
worn  and  loved,  and  as  a  slight  personal  tribute  to 
his  genius,  I  dedicate  this  book  to  the  memory  of  my 
friend, 

ARTHUR  QUART  LEY, 

an    open-hearted    man,   an    out-door    painter    of    the 
highest  rank,  and  a  loyal  lover  of  Nature. 

F.  HOPKINSON   SMITH. 
New  York,  September  lo,  iSSb.  , 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

The  Church  of  San  Pablo,  Seville 

El  Puerta  del  Vino.     Alhambra  (Granada 

A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

Under  Arrest  in  Cordova      .    .     . 

A  Veranda  in  the  Alcazaria      .     . 

In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

Under  a  Balcony 

A  Day  with  the  Professor  .     . 

A  Visit  from  the  Doctor  .  . 
On  the  RivA,  Venice  .  .  . 
A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice 
The  Top  of  a  Gondola  .  . 
Behind  the  Riai.to.  .  .  . 
Up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria  ,    . 


PAGE 
I 

4 

9 

IS 
28 

38 
46 

58 
62 
66 
71 
77 
87 
96 
106 
in, 


INTRODUCTION 


These  sketches  are  the  record  of  some 
idle  days  spent  in  rambling  about  odd 
places,  and  into  quaint  nooks,  and  along 
well-worn  roads  of  travel.  They  contain 
no  information  of  any  value  to  anybody. 
They  are  absolutely  bare  of  statistics,  are 
entirely  useless  as  a  guide  to  travelers,  and 
can  be  of  no  possible  benefit  to  a  student 
desirous  of  increasing  his  knowledge  either 
of  foreign  architecture,  mediaeval  art,  poli- 
tics, or  any  kindred  subject. 

They  are  not  arranged  in  any  order, 
have  no  specific  bearing  one  upon  the  other, 
and  are,  in  short,  the  merest  outline  of  what 
one  may  see  and  hear  who  keeps  both  his 
eyes  and  his  ears  wide  open. 

They  were  written  some  months  after 
the  discomforts  and  annoyances  of  travel 


2  Introduction 

had  passed  out  of  mind,  and  when  only  the 
memory  remained  of  the  many  happy 
hours  spent  under  cool  archways,  and  along 
canals,  and  up  curious,  twisted  streets,  and 
into  dark,  old,  smoked  churches.  They, 
however,  possess  one  quality,  and  that  is 
truth. 

A  painter  has  peculiar  advantages  over 
other  less  fortunate  people.  His  sketch- 
book is  a  passport  and  his  white  umbrella  a 
flag  of  truce  in  all  lands  under  the  sun,  be 
it  savage  or  civilized;  an  "open  sesame," 
bringing  good  cheer  and  hospitality,  and 
entitling  the  possessor  to  all  the  benefits 
of  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity. 

I  have  been  picked  up  on  a  roadside  in 
Cuba  by  a  Spanish  grandee,  who  has  driven 
me  home  in  his  volante  to  breakfast.  I 
have  been  left  in  charge  of  the  priceless 
relics  and  treasures  of  old  Spanish  churches 
hours  at  a  time  and  alone.  I  have  had  my 
beer  mug  filled  to  the  brim  by  mountain- 
eers in  the  Tyrolean  Alps,  and  had  a  chair 
placed  for  me  at  the  table  of  a  Dutchman 
living  near  the  Zuider  Zee.  All  these  cour- 
tesies and  civilities  being  the  result  of  only 
ten  minutes'  previous  acquaintance,  and 
simply  because  I  was  a  painter. 


Introduction  ^ 

Truly  "one  touch  of  nature  [with  the 
brush]  makes  the  whole  world  kin." 

If,  therefore,  by  reason  of  my  craft  and 
its  advantages,  I  can  show  you  some  things 
you  may  perhaps  have  overlooked  in  your 
own  wanderings,  I  shall  be  more  than  sat- 
isfied. So  if  you  will  draw  another  easy 
chair  up  to  my  studio  fire  I  will  tell  you  as 
simply  as  I  can  something  of  the  groups 
who  looked  over  my  shoulder  while  I 
worked,  and  who  daily  formed  my  circle 
of  acquaintance  ;  merely  hinting  to  you  as 
delicately  as  possible  that  a  traveler,  even 
with  an  ordinary  pair  of  eyes  and  ears,  can 
get  much  nearer  to  the  heart  of  a  people  in 
their  cafes,  streets,  and  markets  than  in 
their  museums,  galleries,  and  palaces,  and 
reminding  you  at  the  same  time  of  the  old 
adage  which  claims  that  "a  live  gamin  is 
better  than  a  dead  king,"  for  all  the  prac- 
tical purposes  of  life. 

F.  H.  S. 

New  York,  September,  1886. 


THE  CHURCH  OF  SAN  PABLO, 
SEyiLLE 

I  HAD  a  queer  adventure  in 
this  old  Spanish  church.  I  was 
a  voluntary  prisoner  within  its 
quiet  walls  for  half  a  day.  The 
intense  heat  of  the  morning  had 
driven  me  out  of  the  small  plaza 
near  the  fruit  market,  and  into 
a  narrow,  crooked  street  which 
led  to  the  open  church  door. 
The  interior  was  filled  with  the 
fragrant  incense  of  the  mass, 
just  closed,  and  the  cool  air  and  silence  of 
the  place  were  so  grateful  that  I  laid  my 
"trap"  softly  down  near  a  group  of  pil- 
lars, uncovered  my  head,  and  watched  the 
kneeling  figures  praying  at  the  feet  of  the 
Virgin.  Two  altar  boys  entered  from  a 
side  door,  snuffed  out  the  long  candles,  and 
covered  the  altar  with  white  cloths.  One 
by  one  the  kneeling  penitents  rose,  bowed 
reverently,  drew  their  mantillas  closer,  and 


The  Church  of  San  Pablo  5 

glided  out  into  the  sunlight.  Soon  the 
sacristan  appeared,  closed  the  great  swing- 
ing-doors behind  the  last  worshiper,  and 
discovered  me  with  my  easel  up.  I  had 
already  blocked  in  one  end  of  the  confes- 
sional, over  which  hung  poised  in  air  a 
huge  angel,  holding  a  swinging-lamp. 

"  Senor,  it  is  not  permitted  to  remain 
longer.  It  is  eleven  o'clock.  At  four  you 
can  return  again." 

Two  pesetas  performed  a  miracle.  The 
sacristan  was  soon  in  the  hot  street  with 
the  money  and  the  keys  in  his  pocket,  and 
I  was  locked  up  alone  in  the  cool  church 
with  my  easel  and  sketch.  I  continued 
painting.  The  hours  wore  on  slowly.  The 
light  streamed  in  through  the  high  win- 
dows, patterned  the  floor,  crept  up  the 
altar  steps,  and  illumined  the  head  of  the 
huge  angel  with  a  crown  of  prismatic  color. 

The  silence  became  intense,  and  was 
broken  only  by  the  muffled  sound  of  a  door 
closing  in  the  cloister  beyond.  Suddenly 
a  panel  opened  in  the  solid  wall  to  my  left, 
and  a  figure  closely  veiled  and  shrouded  in 
black  tottered  in,  supported  by  her  duenna 
and  an  elderly  woman.  She  staggered  to 
the  altar  steps,  and  threw  back  her  man- 


6  The  Church  of  Sail  Pablo 

tilla.  She  was  richly  dressed,  deathly 
pale,  and  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  With 
a  cry  of  agony  she  lifted  up  her  hands,  and 
fell  half  swooning  at  the  feet  of  the  figure 
of  the  Virgin. 

*'  Mi  adorada  amiga  ! "  she  sobbed,  "  they 
have  taken  you  away.  Mother  of  God, 
have  mercy !  "  The  duenna  raised  her 
head  and  laid  it  in  her  lap.  The  mother 
sat  silently  by,  smoothing  her  temples  and 
fanning  softly.  Again  she  raised  herself, 
and,  winding  her  white  arms  around  the 
Virgin,  while  her  black  hair  streamed  over 
her  tear-stained  face,  she  poured  out  her 
grief,  until  she  sank  back  exhausted  and 
motionless.  This  continued  nearly  an 
hour,  —  the  sefiorita  sobbing  convulsively, 
and  the  two  women  kneeling  beside  her, 
waiting  for  the  paroxysms  to  pass,  until, 
utterly  worn  out,  she  was  lifted  and  half 
carried  across  the  aisle  and  through  the 
open  door.  It  closed  gently  and  left  no 
trace. 

I  emerged  from  my  shelter,  gathered  up 
my  brushes,  and  continued  work.  The 
confessional  box  took  definite  shape,  and 
the  angel  was  kept  in  his  proper  place  by 
many  pats  of  color  bestowed  on  the  back- 


The  Church  of  San  Pablo  7 

ground  around  him.  A  few  touches 
brought  out  the  swinging-lamp  and  the  or- 
gan-pipes against  the  light  high  up  in  the 
nave.  But  I  could  not  paint.  I  pushed 
back  my  easel  and  began  wandering  about. 
I  sat  down  by  the  altar  steps,  near  where 
the  senorita  had  thrown  herself,  and  ex- 
amined carefully  the  poor  cracked  image 
of  the  Virgin,  with  the  paint  scaling  off 
and  crumbling  under  my  touch,  to  which 
she  had  clung  so  desperately.  I  went  on 
tiptoe  to  the  altar.  The  old  Spanish  chairs 
on  either  side  were  covered  with  soiled 
linen  covers  ;  underneath,  huge  brass  nails 
of  a  Moorish  pattern,  and  scarlet  velvet, 
threadbare.  The  vessels,  quaint  in  design, 
silvered  on  copper.  The  cloths,  superb 
with  delicate  Salamanca  embroidery  in  pale 
yellow  and  white.  The  lamp  which  hung 
in  front,  suspended  from  a  chain  lost  in  the 
gloom  of  the  roof,  burned  a  ruby  light. 
Behind  the  altar,  broken  saints  of  wood  and 
plaster,  bits  of  candles,  tapers,  and  the 
ashes  of  many  censers.  Behind  this,  a  cir- 
cular stairway  leading  to  the  organ  loft. 
Up  this  stairway,  dust,  and  a  lumber-room 
containing  old  chant-books  bound  in  vel- 
lum, yellow  and  worm-eaten,  with  bronze 


8  The  Church  of  San  Pablo 

corners  and  heavy  bindings  torn  and  de- 
faced. Farther  on,  a  small  door,  and 
theh  the  organ.  The  floor  was  strewn 
with  broken  keys,  twisted  pipes  and  wire, 
and  the  great  tubes  were  smashed  in  as  if 
with  the  butt  of  a  musket.  I  again  closed 
the  small  door,  and  descended  the  stair- 
way. A  key  grated  in  a  lock,  the  great 
door  swung  open,  and  let  in  the  sunlight, 
the  hot  air,  and  the  sacristan. 

Had  I  been  disturbed  ?  Yes,  the  seno- 
rita.     He  looked  startled. 

Through  which  door  ?  Ah  !  yes  ;  from 
the  Archbishop's.  He  had  heard  about  it. 
It  was  very  sad.  The  poor  senorita,  and 
she  so  beautiful ! 

"But  is  there  no  hope.-'" 

"  No,  mi  amigo  ;  he  was  shot  at  day- 
light." 


EL  PUERTA   DEL   l^INO.    ALHAMBRA 
(GRANADA) 

The  legends  say- 
that  the  Moorish  kings 
stored  their  choicest 
wine  in  the  cellars  be- 
neath this  curious  old 
archway.  It  was  blaz- 
ing away  this  morning 
at  a  white  heat  under 
a  Spanish  sun  and 
against  a  china-blue 
sky,  and  it  sheltered 
not  the  juice  of  the  grape,  but  an  aguador 
and  two  donkeys.  All  three  were  asleep, 
—  the  water-carrier  on  his  back,  and  the 
patient,  tired  little  beasts  propped  up 
against  each  other. 

They  had  climbed  the  long  hill  of  the 
Alhambra  very  many  times  since  sunrise, 
and  the  water-jars  had  been  often  filled  that 
day,  and  as  often  emptied  into  thirsty  vil- 
lagers in  the  plain  below.     They  had  re- 


lo  El  Puerta  del  Vino 

freshed  everybody  but  themselves.  Now 
it  was  their  turn.  So  they  dozed  away,  and 
I  continued  painting. 

If  their  green  jars  had  contained  wine  I 
should  have  had  no  use  for  it.  No  water- 
color  painter  does.  But  water,  pure  water, 
began  to  be  valuable  ;  my  bottle  was  empty, 
and  the  well  some  distance  off.  It  was 
cruel  to  disturb  them,  but  after  all  I  am 
only  human.  "Agua.?  Si,  senor."  The 
aguador  sprang  to  his  feet,  the  donkeys 
lazily  opened  their  eyes,  a  simultaneous 
convulsive  movement  of  long  ears  and 
short  tails,  and  the  procession  moved  down 
out  into  the  glare,  and  halted  outside  of  my 
umbrella. 

A  glass  wet  and  held  high,  glistening  in 
the  sunlight,  a  shower  of  diamond  drops 
thrown  in  a  circle,  a  gurgling  sound  from  "a 
cool  jar,  and,  with  the  bow  of  an  Hidalgo, 
the  aguador  handed  me  that  most  blessed 
of  all  drinks,  —  cool  water  in  a  hot  land. 
I  dropped  a  copper  into  his  outstretched 
hand,  and  looked  up.  He  was  a  tall, 
straight  young  fellow,  swarthy,  with  high 
cheek-bones,  and  black,  bead-like  eyes ;  a 
red  silk  handkerchief  bound  his  head,  and 
a  broad  sash  encircled  his  waist. 


El  Puerta  del  yino  ii 

"  You  are  not  a  Spaniard  ?  "  I  asked. 

His  face  flushed,  and  a  smile  of  supreme 
contempt  crept  over  it. 

"A  Spaniard?  Caramba  !  No,  seiior  ! 
I  am  a  gypsy  !     Come." 

He  caught  me  by  the  arm,  and  half 
dragged  me  to  the  low  wall  which  over- 
hangs the  plain.  Below  was  the  valley  of 
the  Vega  and  the  city  of  Granada  swim- 
ming in  a  gray  dust.  He  pointed  to  a  nar- 
row road  far  down  the  slope,  skirted  by  the 
river  Darro. 

"  See  you  those  dark  holes  in  the  hill- 
side .''  That  is  my  home."  I  made  him  a 
low  bow.  I  had  not  only  caught  a  gypsy, 
but  a  cave-dweller. 

I  remembered  instantly  that  this  man's 
ancestors  lived  in  these  holes  in  the  ground 
befoire  Ibn-I-Ahmar  began  to  build  the 
Alhambra.  I  also  remembered  that  the 
Moors  had  "  met  with  some  reverses  ;  "  but 
here  was  this  sunburnt  gypsy  living  in  a 
house  eight  hundred  years  old,  and  the 
house  still  in  possession  of  his  family  !  I 
handed  him  a  cigarette,  and  made  room  for 
him  under  my  umbrella. 

His  story  was  very  simple.  He  had 
been  a  water-carrier  for  several  years.     In 


12  El  Puerta  del  f^ino 

the  summer  time  he  earned  two  pesetas 
(about  forty  cents).  The  donkeys  belonged 
to  his  father,  vt?ho  had  half  of  his  earnings. 
That  left  one  peseta  for  himself  and  Pepita. 

Was  Pepita  his  wife  ?  No,  not  yet,  be- 
cause her  mother  had  been  a  long  time 
sick;  but  soon — perhaps  by  next  Holy 
Week. 

He  wished  I  knew  Pepita.  "  Her  waist 
was  so  "  (making  a  circle  of  his  two  thumbs 
and  his  two  forefingers),  "  her  ankle  was 
so  "  (one  thumb  and  one  forefinger),  "  and 
her  foot  so  "  (holding  up  his  little  finger). 

Pepita  was  as  good  as  she  was  pretty. 
Perhaps  she  would  come  up  to  the  well  to- 
day, for  she  was  at  mass  when  he  left  that 
morning.  He  would  go  to  the  well  and 
look  for  her. 

He  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  but  for 
the  dozing  donkeys  broiling  in  the  sun  I 
should  have  given  him  up. 

Suddenly  four  long  ears  pointed  forward, 
and  two  stumpy  tails  veered  like  weather- 
vanes.  Through  the  archway  came  my 
aguador  and  the  daintiest  of  little  gypsy 
maidens.  She  wore  a  white  kerchief  tied 
under  her  chin,  great  hoops  of  gold  in  her 
ears,  strings  of  blue  beads  around  her  neck 


(_- 


El  Puerta  del  Vmo  i  ^ 

and  wrists,  over  her  shoulders  a  yellow 
scarf,  and  on  her  feet  tiny  black  slippers 
with  red  heels.  Shading  her  eyes  with  her 
fan  she  gave  me  a  timid  courtesy,  and  stood 
at  one  side,  resting  her  hand  on  her  lover's 
shoulder.  She  watched  every  movement 
of  my  brush,  and  laughed  heartily  when  a 
few  strokes  indicated  the  donkeys. 

But  it  was  growing  late.  Would  the 
most  illustrious  painter  have  any  more 
water  }  Would  he  share  the  grapes  Pepita 
had  brought .''  Yes,  with  pleasure ;  but 
Pepita  should  have  five  pesetas. 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  happened  as  I 
placed  the  coins  in  her  hands } 

"Ah,  seiior  !  Bueno  !  bueno  !  Mateo, 
see  !  "  she  said,  holding  up  the  money  and 
seizing  my  hand,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
Before  I  was  aware  she  had  kissed  it. 

The  aguador  leaned  forward  and  whis- 
pered, "  You  know  her  mother  is  very 
sick." 

Then  he  fumbled  about  between  the  don- 
keys, and  piled  both  panniers  and  all  the 
jars  on  top  of  the  uglier  and  sleepier  of  the 
two,  and  the  dainty  little  sweetheart  was 
lifted  on  the  other.  Then  I  watched  them 
through  the  archway  and  down  the  steep 


j/f.  El  Piierta  del  Fino 

hill,  until  they  were  lost  amid  the  pome- 
granates. 

I  held  up  the  back  of  my  hand.  Yes, 
there  was  no  mistake  ;  she  had  kissed  it. 
It  was  a  pity  that  she  —  but  then,  of  course, 
I  was  only  a  stray  painter.  I  was  not  an 
aguador,  descendant  of  a  family  eight  hun- 
dred years  old,  a  landed  proprietor,  with  a 
cash  capital  of  five  pesetas,  and  a  half  in- 
terest in  a  water-route  and  two  donkeys  ! 

After  all,  are  the  good  things  of  this 
world  so  unequally  divided  ? 

Quien  sabe  ? 


A  GYPSY  DANCE  NEAR   GRANADA 


Mateo,  the 
aguador,  and 
I  became 
great  friends. 
His  cheery, 
bright  face, 
and  his  wel- 
come "  Bue- 
n  o  s  d  i  a  s, 
seiior,"  were 
very  grateful  to  me  so  many  miles  away 
from  home.  He  and  the  donkeys  stumbled 
in  upon  me  at  all  hours,  and  in  all  parts  of 
the  Alhambra  grounds;  and  if  he  did  not 
quickly  catch  sight  of  my  white  umbrella, 
he  would  leave  his  little  beasts  in  the  road 
and  go  in  search  of  me. 

This  afternoon  I  heard  his  voice  far  down 
the  hill,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  he 
came  singing  through  the  small  entrance 
gate,  and,  bursting  into  a  laugh,  began  to 
tell  me  the  latest  ne^s  in  the  city  below. 


i6        A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

He  was  especially  delighted  over  the 
padre  who  sold  the  chairs  out  of  the  sacristy 
to  the  Englishman,  and  who  did  not  give 
all  the  money  to  the  bishop.  This  I  knew 
to  be  true,  for  I  had  a  hand  in  a  similar 
transaction  myself,  —  the  chair  I  write  in 
being  part  of  the  villainy. 

He  had  a  sad  story  to  tell  about  Sant- 
iago, who  lived  at  the  Great  Gate,  and 
whose  brother,  the  matador,  had  been  hurt 
in  the  bull-fight. 

Then  he  told  me  about  the  actor  from 
Madrid,  who  lived  in  one  of  the  old  red 
towers  of  the  Alhambra,  and  who  came 
every  summer  with  a  new  wife ;  about  the 
mass  on  Sunday  last,  the  procession  of 
Holy  Week;  and  the  great  Spaniard  who 
lived  in  Paris,  and  who  visited  his  olive  farm 
only  once  in  five  years,  and  who  arrived 
yesterday.  Then,  finally,  about  Pepita.  I 
began  to  notice  that  all  these  talks  ended 
in  Pepita.  To-day  he  was  in  fine  spirits. 
He  had  already  earned  three  pesetas,  and 
it  was  not  yet  sundown. 

It  was  a  "  Fiesta  day,"  and  the  churches 
and  streets  were  full,  and  the  people  very 
thirsty.  To-night  he  and  Pepita  would  go 
to  the  dance. 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada        ij 

Up  to  this  time  I  listened  to  his  talk 
without  ever  looking  up  from  my  work.  I 
was  struggling  with  the  Moorish  arch  over 
the  entrance  of  the  Hall  of  the  Ambas- 
sadors, and  had  my  hands  full,  but  here  I 
laid  down  my  palette. 

"  What  dance,  Mateo  ?  " 

"  The  dance  of  the  gypsies,  seiior,  at  the 
Posada  del  Albaycin.  La  Tonta  would 
dance,  and  the  king  of  the  gypsies  would 
bring  his  great  guitar.  Would  the  illus- 
trious painter  accompany  them.^" 

That  being  the  one  particular  thing  the 
illustrious  painter  most  desired  to  see  in  all 
Granada,  I  at  once  accepted,  hurried  up 
my  work,  and  arranged  to  meet  them  at 
the  Great  Gate  of  Charles  V.  Accordingly 
about  an  hour  after  sundown  I  gave  my 
watch  and  wallet  to  the  landlord,  took  ray 
umbrella-staff,  and  strolled  down  the  hill. 

Mateo  awaited  me  in  the  shadow  of  the 
arch  of  the  gate,  carrying  a  lantern.  Pepita 
joined  us  farther  down  in  the  city ;  she 
had  stopped  on  her  way  up  to  restring  her 
guitar.  In  a  few  moments  more  we  all 
halted  at  the  door  of  a  wine  shop  in  the 
rear  of  the  church.  This  was  the  Posada 
del    Albaycin.       A    dim    lamp     fastened 


l8        A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

against  the  wall  revealed  a  crowd  of  agiia- 
dores,  fruit-sellers,  and  garlic-venders,  to- 
gether with  a  motley  crew  of  Spaniards  and 
gypsies  of  both  sexes  crowding  about  the 
entrance. 

As  I  passed  in,  I  heard  overhead  the 
click  of  the  castanets  and  the  low  thrum- 
ming of  the  guitars.  Ascending  the  steps, 
I  found  myself  in  a  long  room  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  simply  furnished  with  a  row  of 
chairs  on  either  side,  and  lighted  by  a  num- 
ber of  lamps  suspended  on  brackets  fas- 
tened to  the  wall.  At  one  end  was  a  raised 
platform  covered  with  a  carpet.  Seated 
upon  this  platform  was  a  man  of  middle 
age,  very  tall  and  broadly  built,  with  the 
features  and  expression  of  an  American 
Indian.  Compared  in  size  to  the  gypsies 
about  him,  he  was  a  giant.  He  was  tun- 
ing an  enormous  guitar,  —  a  very  grand- 
father of  guitars — having  all  the  strings 
which  ordinary  instruments  of  its  class  pos- 
sess, and  an  extra  string  fastened  on  an 
outrigger.  The  back  of  this  curious  instru- 
ment was  covered  with  sheet-brass. 

As  we  entered  he  left  his  chair,  placed 
the  guitar  against  the  wall,  greeted  Mateo 
and  Pepita,  and,  having  spoken  in  an  un- 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada         19 

dertone  to  the  aguador,  raised  his  wide 
Spanish  hat  and  saluted  me  gracefully. 

Pepita  occupied  one  of  the  vacant  seats 
on  the  platform,  and  rested  her  instrument 
gently  against  her  knee,  while  her  lover 
and  I  watched  the  groups  as  they  crowded 
up  the  narrow  stairway  and  filled  the  floor 
space. 

He  pointed  out  all  the  celebrities.  The 
tall  man  with  the  overgrown  guitar  was 
known  as  the  king  of  the  gypsies.  The 
dance  to-night  was  for  his  benefit.  La 
Tonta  was  his  daughter,  and  the  best  dan- 
cer in  Spain.  She  did  not  dance  often. 
He  was  sure  I  would  not  be  disappointed. 
But  the  dance  was  about  to  begin,  and  we 
must  keep  silence. 

The  king  bowed  to  the  audience,  struck 
his  guitar  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  swept 
all  the  strings  simultaneously,  twirled  it  in 
the  air,  kissed  it,  took  his  seat  with  a  great 
flourish,  and  began  the  melody.  Im- 
mediately, at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  a 
young  gypsy  arose,  tightened  his  belt, 
clapped  his  hands,  and  began  a  slow  move- 
ment with  his  feet,  the  dancers  and  au- 
dience keeping  time  with  their  castanets 
and  the  palms  of  their  hands. 


20        A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

Then  a  gypsy  girl  took  the  floor  and 
danced  a  "  Bolero."  Then  came  more 
gypsies  in  tight  trousers  and  loose  jackets, 
until  the  hour  arrived  for  the  sensation  of 
the  evening. 

A  great  clapping  announced  La  Tonta 
as  she  entered  quickly  from  a  side  door, 
and  stood  facing  the  mirror.  To  my  sur- 
prise she  was  a  tall,  thin,  ungraceful,  badly- 
formed,  and  slattern-looking  gypsy  woman, 
by  no  means  young.  She  was  attired  in 
a  long  yellow  calico  gown  hanging  loosely 
about  her,  much  the  worse  for  wear  and 
not  overclean.  She  wore  black  kid  slippers 
and  white  cotton  stockings.  Her  skin 
was  dark  like  all  women  of  her  race,  and 
her  eyes  large  and  luminous.  Her  mass 
of  jet-black  hair  was  caught  in  a  twist  be- 
hind, the  whole  decorated  with  blossoms 
of  the  tuberose.  Taken  as  a  whole,  she 
was  the  last  woman  in  all  Spain  you  would 
have  picked  out  as  a  star  danseuse, 

I  looked  at  Mateo  in  surprise,  but  his 
expression  was  too  earnest  and  his  admi- 
ration too  sincere.  He  evidently  did  not 
agree  with  me  in  my  estimate  of  La  Tonta. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  said, 
"Wait!" 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada        21 

At  this  instant  a  stout  gypsy  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  who  had  been  beating  time  with 
his  cane,  and  who  appeared  to  be  master 
of  ceremonies,  cleared  the  floor,  pressing 
everybody  back  against  the  wall. 

La  Tonta  stood  surveying  herself  in  the 
mirror  which  hung  over  the  mantel.  She 
nodded  to  Mateo,  and  began  rolling  up  her 
soiled  calico  sleeves  quite  to  her  shoulders, 
revealing  a  thin,  although  well-proportioned 
and  not  altogether  unattractive  pair  of 
arms.  She  then  stripped  the  cheap  tinsel 
bracelets  from  her  wrists,  and  hid  them  in 
her  bosom. 

As  the  music  increased  in  volume,  she 
shut  her  eyes  and  stretched  out  her  long 
arms  as  a  panther  sometimes  does  ;  then 
lifted  them  above  her  head,  and  instantly 
they  fell  into  the  rhythm  of  the  music. 
Fler  feet  now  began  to  move,  and  a  pecul- 
iar swaying  motion  started  as  if  from  her 
heels,  ran  up  through  her  limbs,  back,  and 
neck,  undulated  through  her  long  arms, 
and  lost  itself  in  her  finger-tips. 

This  was  repeated  again  and  again,  each 
movement  increasing  in  intensity  ;  her 
eyes  flashing  with  a  light  rare  even  in  a 
Spanish  gypsy.      She   stamped    her    feet, 


22        A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

swayed  her  body  backward  and  forward, 
almost  touched  the  floor  with  her  hair,  and 
then  suddenly  rushed  forward,  appealing 
to  you  with  her  outstretched  arms. 

The  music  seemed  to  possess  her  like  a 
spell.  She  became  grace  itself,  her  move- 
ments sylph-like — and,  if  you  will  believe 
it,  positively  beautiful.  As  the  music  quick- 
ened, her  gestures  became  more  violent ; 
as  it  died  away,  you  could  hardly  believe 
she  moved  —  and  she  did  not,  exxept  the 
slight  shuffling  of  her  feet,  which  kept  up 
the  spell  within  her. 

The  effect  on  the  audience  was  startling. 
Men  rose  to  their  feet,  bending  forward  and 
watching  her  every  motion.  The  women 
clapped  their  hands,  encouraging  her  with 
cries  of  "  Olle  !  olle  !     Bravo,  La  Tonta  !  " 

Suddenly  the  music  ceased,  and  La 
Tonta  stood  perfectly  still.  Her  eyes 
opened,  her  arms  fell  limp  beside  her,  her 
back  straightened,  and  she  awoke  as  if 
from  a  trance.  Giving  a  quick  glance 
around,  she  gathered  her  skirts  in  her 
hand,  and  limped  rather  than  walked 
through  the  hall  and  out  into  the  side  room, 
if  anything  more  awkward  than  when  she 
had  entered. 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada        2^ 

The  applause  was  long-continued  and 
genuine.  I  certainly  did  my  share  of  it. 
The  look  of  supreme  satisfaction  which 
came  over  the  face  of  my  aguador  as  he 
watched  my  admiration  was  not  the  Iea:St 
part  of  my  enjoyment. 

But  the  dance  was  over,  and  we  all 
crowded  to  the  street.  Mateo  had  greet- 
ings for  his  friends,  and  Pepita  was  sur- 
rounded by  half  a  dozen  girls  of  her  own 
age,  who  had  kind  things  to  say  about  her 
part  of  the  performance.  In  a  moment  I 
was  singled  out  and  besieged  by  a  bevy  of 
dark-eyed  gypsies,  who  had  heard,  no 
doubt,  of  Pepita' s  good  fortune,  and  who,  if 
they  did  not  have  sick  mothers  at  home, 
had  many  other  interests  which  were  equally 
pressing. 

"  Una  peseta,  seiior,"  called  out  half  a 
dozen  at  once.  I  had  a  few  small  coins 
left  in  my  sketching-coat,  but  they  were 
soon  distributed.  "  Por  me,  senor,"  said  a 
wicked-looking  gypsy  girl.  My  money 
being  all  gone,  and  the  bulk  of  my  prop- 
erty being  at  that  moment  in  the  hands  of 
my  landlord,  I  did  the  next  best  thing  pos- 
sible. I  gave  her  a  red  rose  from  my  but- 
tonhole with  my  best  bow.     Just  here  my 


24        A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

trouble  began.  She  received  it  with  a  cold 
smile,  and  turned  on  her  heel.  In  less  time 
thereafter  than  I  can  tell  it,  a  young  fellow 
broke  through  the  group  and  confronted 
me,  held  the  rose  in  his  hand,  poured  out  a 
torrent  of  abuse,  and  ground  it  into  the 
earth  with  his  heel. 

Mateo  sprang  forward  and  caught  him 
by  the  throat,  and  for  a  moment  it  looked 
as  if  there  was  going  to  be  as  lively  a  scene 
as  I  had  ever  experienced.  But  at  this  in- 
stant the  powerful  form  of  the  king  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  and,  after  mutual 
explanations  on  all  sides,  the  young  fellow 
seemed  satisfied  that  no  indignity  had  been 
offered  his  sweetheart,  and  that  the  illus- 
trious painter  had  only  intended  a  compli- 
ment especially  prized  by  the  senoritas  in 
his  own  country. 

With  this  we  separated,  Mateo  and  Pe- 
pita  going  with  me  as  far  as  the  Great  Gate, 
the  groups  scattering  down  the  crooked 
streets,  and  I  to  wander  about  the  groves 
of  the  Alhambra  before  going  to  bed. 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  and  I  wanted  once 
more  to  see  the  Garden  of  Lindaraja  with 
its  deep  shadows.  A  few  quick  steps 
brought   me   beyond    the  archway   of  the 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada        2^ 

Gate  of  Justice,  and  near  the  fountains  of 
the  Court  of  Lions. 

It  was  nearly  midnight.  The  Moorish 
arches,  supported  on  their  slender  marble 
columns,  wore  the  color  of  a  tea-rose,  as 
they  stood  bathed  in  the  moonlight.  There 
was  no  sound  but  the  gurgling  of  the  water 
running  through  the  channels  in  the  mar- 
ble at  my  feet,  and  the  regular  plash  of  the 
fountain. 

I  began  thinking  about  these  gypsies  — 
their  history,  the  peculiarities  of  their  race, 
the  stories  of  their  villainy  and  treachery, 
of  their  vindictiveness,  of  their  curious 
homes,  and  then  of  this  girl  whom  the  mu- 
sic had  transformed  into  a  goddess. 

My  reverie  was  broken  by  the  sound  of 
a  footstep,  and  rising  from  my  seat  I  looked 
behind  me  into  the  mass  of  shadow.  It 
ceased,  and  I  again  took  my  seat;  Some 
visitor,  I  thought,  who  would  also  see  the 
Alhambra  by  moonlight.  But  I  felt  un- 
comfortable. The  incident  of  the  rose  was, 
to  say  the  least,  unpleasant.  I  began  real- 
izing the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  turned 
my  steps  back  to  my  lodgings. 

On  the  way  home,  finding  the  bucket  of 
the  well  of  the  Moors  at  the  top  and  full,  I 


26         A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada 

had  a  cool  drink.  Then  I  passed  down 
through  the  trees  and  into  the  narrow  ra- 
vine which  leads  through  the  gate,  and  so 
on  under  the  archway  and  out  into  the 
moonlight  beyond  its  black  shadow. 

At  that  instant  I  became  conscious  that 
some  one  was  following  me.  I  could  hear 
the  rapid  footfall  timed  to  keep  pace  with 
my  own.  I  grasped  my  umbrella-staff,  and 
slid  it  along  my  hand  until  I  could  feel  the 
iron  spike.  As  I  reached  the  last  outer 
step  of  the  gate,  a  man  wearing  a  gypsy's 
cloak  ran  rapidly  through  the  shadow  be- 
hind and  toward  me.  I  turned  quickly, 
and  recognized  the  young  gypsy  who  had 
so  pointedly  destroyed  my  rose  under  his 
boot  heel. 

At  the  same  instant  another  figure 
glided  from  the  doorway  to  my  side,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Never  fear,  caballero; 
it  is  Mateo.    I  am  watching  the  cut-throat." 

The  gypsy  started  back,  sprang  over  the 
low  wall,  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 
If  I  had  ever  been  glad  to  see  Mateo  it  was 
at  that  moment.  He  was  out  of  breath  — 
and  temper.  F'or  an  instant  he  was  unde- 
cided whether  he  would  go  home  with  me 
or  go  after  the  gentleman  with  the  destruc- 


A  Gypsy  Dance  near  Granada         2y 

tive  heel.  I  finally  persuaded  him  that  he 
possibly  might  do  both,  but  he  should  leave 
me  at  my  lodgings  first. 

On  our  way  down  the  hill  Mateo  told  me 
his  end  of  the  story.  After  leaving  Pepita 
for  the  night,  and  crossing  the  street  which 
leads  to  the  Great  Gate,  he  had  noticed  this 
fellow  skulking  along,  and  watched  him 
turn  into  the  Alhambra  grounds.  Know- 
ing that  the  gypsy  could  not  reach  his 
home  by  that  route,  and  remembering  our 
recent  difficulty,  he  had  dogged  his  foot- 
steps into  and  through  the  Alhambra,  and 
had  caught  up  with  him  as  I  was  drinking 
at  the  well.  Believing  that  I  would  go  out 
by  the  Gate  of  Justice,  he  had  taken  the 
short  cut  down  the  hill,  and  waited  for  me 
under  the  archway,  and  I  knew  the  rest. 

I  reached  my  lodgings  and  rapped  up 
the  sleepy  porter,  and  bade  good-night  to 
my  friend  the  aguador.  I  hope  my  addi- 
tions to  Pepita's  dowry  cured  the  mother 
and  hastened  the  wedding. 


UNDER  ARREST  IN  CORDOVA 

In  Spain  evo- 
lution has  pro- 
duced the  tartana 
from  the  old- 
fashioned  char- 
coal cart.  Dur- 
ing the  process  the  cart  lost  two  of  its 
wheels  and  the  tartana  gained  two  long 
seats,  both  chintz  covered  and  made  com- 
fortable with  pew  cushions,  besides  two 
pairs  of  lace  curtains  looped  back  fore  and 
aft,  and  a  brief  flight  of  steps  farthest  from 
the  mule  serving  as  a  sort  of  Jacob's  lad- 
der for  ascending  and  descending  senoritas. 
I  was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  one  of 
the  gates  of  the  great  Mosque  at  Cordova 
when  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  tartana. 

It  took  possession  of  me,  and  in  five 
minutes  I  had  returned  the  compliment. 

It  came  around  the  corner  with  a  rush, 
smothered  in  a  cloud  of  white  dust,  in  the 
centre  of  which  I  could  see  the  red  tassels 


Under  Arrest  in  Cordova  29 

of  the  mule  and  the  outstretched  arm  of 
the  driver  seated  on  the  shaft  and  wielding 
a  whip  of  convincing  length.  Then  it 
whirled  around  before  me,  backed  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  unloaded  half  a  dozen  pairs 
of  black  eyes,  some  mantillas,  fans,  and  red- 
heeled  slippers. 

As  the  fair  sefioritas  were  going  to  mass 
and  I  sketching,  we  separated  at  once. 

A  crack  of  the  whip,  a  plunge  from  the 
convinced  mule,  a  dash  along  a  hot,  dusty 
road,  bounded  by  a  hedge  of  prickly  pears, 
and  we  all  stopped  at  an  old  Moorish  arch, 
now,  as  in  olden  times,  one  of  the  city's 
gates. 

I  stopped  for  two  reasons.  First,  be- 
cause the  custom-house  officer  insisted  upon 
it ;  and  second,  because  the  gate  loomed 
up  in  such  majestic  symmetry  against  the 
deep  blue  sky  that  I  determined  to  paint  it 
at  once,  and  so  ordered  the  driver  to  un- 
limber,  and  prepared  for  action. 

This  meant  that  the  mule  was  unhar- 
nessed and  tethered  in  a  shady  spot,  and 
that  I  was  anchored  out  by  myself  in  the 
tartana  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  in 
the  immediate  centre  of  all  the  traffic  of 
the  city's  gate. 


^o  Under  Arrest  in  Cordova 

Any  other  position,  however,  would  have 
been  useless,  for  it  was  the  only  spot  from 
which  I  could  see  through  the  arch  and 
into  the  city's  streets  beyond. 

Considering  that  I  and  my  tartana  were 
public  nuisances,  the  good-nature  and  for- 
bearance of  the  populace  were  remarkable. 
Every  now  and  then  a  great  string  of  mules 
would  come  to  a  standstill  off  my  weather 
bow,  the  muleteer  would  slide  down  from 
his  perch,  step  forward,  peer  into  my  shaded 
retreat,  catch  sight  of  the  easel,  apologize 
for  disturbing  the  painter,  and  then  proceed 
to  disentangle  his  string  of  quadrupeds  as 
if  it  was  a  matter  of  course  and  part  of  his 
daily  routine. 

Even  the  custom-house  officers  exactins: 
tithes  from  the  hucksters  bringing  their 
produce  to  the  city's  market,  and  who  at 
first  regarded  me  with  suspicion,  became 
courteous  and  lent  a  helping  hand  in 
straightening  out  the  continuous  proces- 
sion of  donkeys,  market  carts,  wagons,  and 
teams  crossing  the  cool  shadow  of  the  arch. 

The  crowd  about  my  muleless  tartana 
were  equally  considerate.  They  stood  for 
hours  patient  and  silent,  filled  my  water- 
bottle,  brought  me  coffee,  and  one  old  San- 


Under  Arrest  in  Cordova  5/ 

cho  Panza  of  a  farmer  even  handed  me  up 
a  great  bunch  of  white  grapes.  All  they 
wanted  in  return  was  a  view  of  the  sketch. 
This  I  paid,  holding  it  up  regularly  for  their 
inspection  every  half  hour. 

While  this  busy  scene  occupied  the  road- 
way under  the  gate,  another  of  quite  a  dif- 
ferent character  was  taking  place  in  the 
grated  rooms  above  it. 

I  had  noticed  on  my  arrival  a  thinly  con- 
structed military  gentleman  all  sword  and 
moustache,  who  watched  me  from  a  win- 
dow, and  who  seemed  to  take  an  especial 
interest  in  my  movements.  I  now  caught 
sight  of  him  at  an  upper  window  gesticulat- 
ing wildly  and  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
other  military  gentlemen,  all  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  me,  my  tartana,  and  my  circle  of 
art  students.  Then  they  disappeared,  and 
I  gave  the  incident  no  further  thought. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  vista  of  the  street 
seen  through  the  gate,  and  consequently 
the  central  point  of  my  sketch,  was  ob- 
structed by  a  mass  of  people  crowding 
about  the  great  swinging  doors,  and  from 
it  marched  a  file  of  soldiers  under  com- 
mand of  an  officer  who  began  a  series  of 
military  movements  of  great  simplicity. 


^2  Under  Arrest  in  Cordova 

Y'wsX,  they  marched  up  the  road  and  left 
two  men.  Then  they  marched  back  and 
left  two  more.  Then  they  deployed  in 
front  and  stationed  one  at  each  wheel  of 
my  tartan  a,  and  finally  the  officer  stepped 
forward,  drew  his  sword,  and,  looking  me 
searchingly  in  the  face,  made  this  start- 
ling announcement :  — 

"  Senor,  the  general  in  command  has 
ordered  your  instant  arrest.  You  will 
accompany  me  to  the  prison." 

As  soon  as  I  recovered  my  breath  I  came 
down  Jacob's  ladder  and  asked  politely  for 
an  explanation.  The  only  reply  was  a  crisp 
order  closing  the  files,  followed  by  a  for- 
ward march  which  swept  me  down  the 
dusty  road  under  the  gate,  through  an  iron- 
barred  door,  up  a  broad  flight  of  stone 
steps  leading  up  one  side  of  the  gate-way, 
and  into  a  room  on  the  second  floor  dimly 
lighted  by  small  grated  windows. 

As  soon  as  my  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  glare 
of  the  sunlight,  became  accustomed  to  the 
semi-darkness,  I  discovered  an  officer  with 
snow-white  hair  and  moustache,  seated  at 
a  desk  and  poring  over  a  mass  of  papers. 
He  was  in  full  uniform,  was  half  covered 
with  medals,  and  attended  by  a  secretary. 


Under  Arrest  in  Cordova  ^^ 

He  arose,  perforated  me  with  his  eye, 
listened  to  the  officer's  statement,  and 
demanded  my  age,  name,  and  occupation. 
To  these  questions  I  gave  civil  answers, 
which  the  secretary  recorded. 

Then  he  faced  me  sternly  and  said, 
"  What  are  you  doing  in  Cordova  ?  " 

"  A  little  of  everything,  your  excellency. 
I  prowl  about  the  streets,  lounge  in  the 
cafes,  go  to  mass,  make  love  to  the  senori- 
tas,  attend  the  bull-fight,  and  "  — 

"  And  make  drawings  ?  " 

"  I  admit  it,  your  excellency." 

"  What  do  you  do  with  these  drawings, 
senor  pintor  ? " 

"  Sell  them,  your  excellency  —  when  I 
can," 

"  You  are  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"No,  I  am  an  American." 

"  Your  passport." 

"  I  have  none." 

That  settled  it.  Seizing  a  pen,  he  in- 
dorsed a  paper  handed  him  by  his  secre- 
tary, passed  it  to  the  officer,  and  said,  in  a 
gruff  voice,  "  Conduct  this  man  to  the  Gov- 


ernor." 


More  closing  in   of    files,   more    drawn 
sword,  more  forward  march,  and  down  the 


^4  Under  Arrest  in  Cordova 

stone  stairs  we  all  tramped,  out  into  the 
glare  of  the  sunlight,  through  the  excited, 
sympathetic,  and  curious  mob,  and  then  up 
on  the  other  side  of  the  gate,  and  up  a  pre- 
cisely similar  staircase,  and  into  a  precisely 
similar  semi-dark  room.  More  desk,  more 
secretary,  —  two  this  time,  —  and  more  ex- 
cellency, but  here  the  similarity  ends. 

At  a  square  table  covered  with  books 
and  papers  was  seated  a  young  officer, 
scarcely  twenty  years  of  age,  also  in  full 
uniform,  but  without  the  numismatic  collec- 
tion decorating  his  chest.  He  was  occu- 
pied in  rolling  a  cigarette. 

The  only  sign  he  gave  of  our  presence 
was  a  glance  at  the  squad  and  a  slight  nod 
to  the  officer,  who  saluted  him  with  marked 
deference.  As  for  myself,  I  do  not  think 
I  came  within  his  range. 

The  cigarette  complete,  he  struck  a  light, 
blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  nostrils, 
read  the  much-indorsed  paper,  reached  for 
a  pen,  and  was  about  to  countersign  it 
when  I  stepped  forward. 

"  Will  your  highness  inform  me  why  I 
am  under  arrest .''  " 

"  Certainly  ;  you  have  been  detected  in 
making  plans  of  this  prison,  which  is  a  mil- 


Under  Arrest  in  Cordova  55 

itary  post  of  Spain.  In  time  of  war  this  is 
punished  with  death  ;  in  time  of  peace,  by 
imprisonment." 

All  this,  you  know,  with  as  much  ease 
and  grace  of  manner  as  if  he  had  invited 
me  to  luncheon,  and  was  merely  giving  di- 
rections about  the  temperature  of  the  bur- 
gundy ! 

"  But  I  am  not  a  spy.  I  am  simply  an 
American  painter  traveling  through  Spain, 
sketching  as  I  go,  and  painting  whatever 
pleases  my  fancy.  Last  week  it  was  the 
awnings  over  the  street  of  the  Sierpes  in 
Seville,  yesterday  the  donkeys  dozing  in 
the  sun  at  the  gate  of  the  Mosque,  and  to- 
day this  old  Moorish  arch,  so  typical  of 
Spain's  great  history." 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette,  lost  his 
languid  air,  took  up  the  paper,  re-read  it 
carefully  to  the  end,  and  said  :  — 

"But  you  have  no  passport." 

"  You  arc  mistaken." 

"  Produce  it." 

I  ran  my  hand  into  my  blouse  and 
handed  him  my  pocket  sketch-book. 

He  opened  it,  stopped  at  the  first  page, 
turned  the  others  slowly,  backed  uncon- 
sciously into  his  chair,  sat  down,  covered 


^6  Under  Arrest  in  Cordova 

his  face  with  a  smile,  broke  into  a  laugh, 
ordered  the  officer  to  follow  him,  and  dis- 
appeared through  a  door. 

I  occupied  myself  examining  the  brass 
numbers  on  the  cartridge-boxes  of  the 
squad,  and  wondering  what  size  handcuffs 
I  wore.  Before  I  had  settled  it,  the  officer 
returned,  saluted  me,  escorted  me  through 
the  door,  leaving  the  squad  behind,  and  led 
me  into  a  small  room  luxuriously  furnished. 
The  young  Governor  came  forward  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Senor,  you  are  free.  I  have  seen  your 
picture.  It  is  admirable.  I  regret  the  mis- 
take. The  officer  will  conduct  you  to  your 
tartana  and  detail  a  file  of  men  who  will 
prevent  your  being  disturbed  until  you  fin- 
ish.    Adios." 

It  was  a  noble  and  goodly  sight  to  see 
that  awkward  squad  mount  guard  in  the 
dust  and  heat  !  It  was  so  frightfully  hot 
out  there  in  the  road,  and  so  delightfully 
cool  inside  the  tartana.  It  was  another 
exhilarating  exhibition  to  watch  the  crowd 
and  see  them  tortured  by  hopeless  curiosity 
to  understand  the  situation.  It  was  still 
an  additional  delightful  spectacle  to  con- 
template the  driver,  who  had  shrunk  into 


Under  Arrest  in  Cordova  ^7 

a  mere  ghost  of  himself  when  the  arrest 
was  made,  and  who  was  now  swelling  with 
the  importance  of  the  result. 

An  hour  later  the  sketch  was  finished, 
the  squad  dismissed,  the  officer,  who  turned 
out  to  be  a  charming  fellow,  was  seated 
beside  me  ;  the  mule,  the  driver,  and  the 
tartana  became  once  more  a  compact  or- 
ganization, and  we  rattled  back  through 
the  blinding  dust,  and  stopped  at  a  cafe  of 
the  officer's  choosins;'. 

Over  the  cognac  I  mustered  up  courage 
to  ask  him  this  question  :  — 

"  If  you  will  permit  me,  seiior  capitan, 
who  is  the  young  Governor  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  " 

I  expressed  my  ignorance. 

"The  Governor,  caballero,  is  the  cousin 
of  the  King." 


A  VERANDA  IN  THE  ALCAZAR/A 


To  really 
understand 
and  appreci- 
ate Spanish 
life  you  must 
live  in  the 
streets.  Not 
lounge 
through 
them,  but  sit 
down  somewhere  and  keep  still  long 
enough  for  the  ants  to  crawl  over  you,  and 
so  contemplate  the  people  at  your  leisure. 
If  you  are  a  painter  you  will  have  every 
facility  given  you.  The  balconies  over 
your  head  will  be  full  of  senoritas  fanning 
lazily  and  peering  at  you  through  the  iron 
gratings ;  the  barber  across  the  way  will 
lay  aside  his  half-moon  basin  and  crossover 
to  your  side  of  the  street  and  chat  with  you 
about  the  bull-fight  of  yesterday  and  the 
fiesta  to-morrow,  and  give  you  all  the  scan- 


A  Veranda  in  the  Alca^aria  ^g 

dal  of  the  neighborhood  before  noon.  The 
sombrerero,  whose  awnings  are  hung  with 
great  strings  of  black  hats  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  will  leave  his  shop  and  watch  you  by 
the  hour  ;  and  the  fat,  good-natured  priest 
will  stand  quietly  at  your  elbow  and  en- 
courage you  with  such  appreciative  criti- 
cisms as  *' Muybien."  "  Bonita,  seiior." 
"  Bonisima." 

If  you  keep  your  eyes  about  you,  you  will 
catch  Figaro  casting  furtive  glances  at  a 
shaded  window  above  you,  and  later  on  a 
scrap  of  paper  will  come  fluttering  down  at 
your  feet,  which  the  quick-witted  barber 
covers  with  his  foot,  slyly  picks  up,  and  af- 
terwards reads  and  kisses  behind  the  half- 
closed  curtains  of  his  shop.  So  much  of 
this  sort  of  thing  will  go  on  during  the 
day  that  you  wonder  what  the  night  may 
bring  forth. 

The  Alcazaria  in  Seville,  upon  the  broad 
flags  of  which  I  spent  the  greater  part  of 
three  days,  is  just  such  a  street.  It  is  a  nar- 
row, winding,  crooked  thoroughfare,  shaded 
by  great  awnings  stretched  between  the 
overhanging  roofs,  and  filled  with  balconies 
holding  great  tropical  plants,  strings  of 
black  hats,  festoons  of  gay  colored  stuffs, 


40  A  Veranda  in  the  Alcaiaria 

s]y  peeping  senoritas,  fruit  sellers,  agua- 
dores,  donkeys,  beggars,  and  the  thousand 
and  one  things  that  make  up  Spanish 
life. 

Before  I  finished  my  picture  I  had  be- 
come quite  an  old  settler,  and  knew  what 
time  the  doctor  came  in,  and  who  was  sick 
over  the  way,  and  the  name  of  the  boy  with 
the  crutch,  and  the  picador  who  lived  in 
the  rear  and  who  strutted  about  on  the 
flagging  in  his  buckskin  leggings,  padded 
with  steel  springs,  on  the  day  of  the  bull- 
fight, and  the  story  about  the  sad-faced 
girl  in  the  window  over  the  wine  shop, 
whose  lover  was  in  prison. 

But  of  course  one  cannot  know  a  street 
at  one  sitting.  The  Alcazaria,  on  the 
morning  of  the  first  day,  was  to  me  only  a 
Spanish  street ;  on  the  morning  of  the  sec- 
ond day  I  began  to  realize  that  it  contained 
a  window  over  my  shoulder  opening  on  a 
small  veranda  half  hidden  in  flowers  and 
palms  ;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  I  knew  just  the  hour  at  which  its  oc- 
cupant returned  from  mass,  the  shape  of 
her  head  and  mantilla,  and  could  recognize 
her  duenna  at  sight. 

This   charming  Spanish  beauty   greatly 


A  Veranda  in  the  Alca^aria  41 

interested  me.  If  I  accidentally  caught 
her  eye  through  the  leaves  and  flowers,  she 
would  drop  her  lashes  so  quickly,  and  with 
such  a  half  frightened,  timid  look,  that  I 
immediately  looked  the  other  way  for  full 
five  minutes  in  lieu  of  an  apology  ;  and  I 
must  confess  that  after  studying  her  move- 
ments for  three  days  I  should  as  soon  have 
thought  of  kissing  my  hand  to  the  Mother 
Superior  of  the  convent  as  to  this  modest 
little  maiden.  I  must  also  confess  that  no 
other  senorita  led  me  to  any  such  conclu- 
sion in  any  of  the  other  balconies  about 
me. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  I  be- 
gan final  preparations  for  my  departure, 
and  as  everybody  wanted  to  see  the  picture, 
it  was  displayed  in  the  shop  of  the  barber 
because  he  had  a  good  light.  Then  I  sent 
his  small  boy  for  my  big  umbrella  and  for 
a  large,  unused  canvas  which  I  had  stored 
in  the  wine  shop  at  the  corner,  and  which, 
with  my  smaller  traps,  he  agreed  to  take  to 
my  lodgings ;  and  then  there  was  a  gen- 
eral hand-shaking  and  some  slight  waving 
of  white  hands  and  handkerchiefs  from  the 
balconies  over  the  way,  in  which  my  timid 
seflorita  did  not  join  ;  and  so,  lighting  my 


42  A  Veranda  in  the  Akaiaria 

cigarette,    I    made  my    adios  and  strolled 
down  the  street  to  the  church. 

It  was  the  hour  for  vespers,  and  the 
streets  were  filling  rapidly  with  penitents 
on  their  way  to  prayers.  With  no  definite 
object  in  view  except  to  see  the  people  and 
watch  their  movements,  and  with  that 
sense  of  relief  which  comes  over  one  after 
his  ..day's  w^ork  is  done,  I  mingled  in  the 
throng  and  passed  between  the  great  swing- 
ing doors  and  into  the  wide  incense-laden 
interior,  and  sat  down  near  the  door  to 
watch  the  service.  The  dim  light  sifted  in 
through  the  stained-glass  windows  and 
rested  on  the  clouds  of  incense  swungfrom 
the  censers.  Every  now  and  then  I  heard 
the  tinkling  of  the  altar-bell,  and  the  deep 
tones  of  the  organ.  Around  me  were  the 
bowed  heads  of  the  penitents,  silently  tell- 
ing their  beads,  and  next  me  the  upturned 
face  and  streaming  eyes  of  a  grief-stricken 
woman,  whispering  her  sorrow  to  the  Vir- 
gin. To  the  left  of  where  I  kneeled  was  a 
small  chapel,  and,  dividing  me  from  this, 
an  iron  grating  of  delicate  workmanship, 
behind  which  were  grouped  a  number  of 
people  praying  before  a  picture  of  the 
Christ.     Suddenly  another  figure  came  in, 


A  Veranda  in  the  Alca^aria  4^ 

kneeled,  and  prayed  silently.  It  was  my 
timid  seiiorita,  and  before  I  was  through 
wondering  how  she  could  come  so  quickly, 
a  young  priest  entered  and  knelt  imme- 
diately behind  her.  He  was  the  same  I 
had  seen  in  the  Alcazaria  glancing  at  her 
window  as  he  passed. 

Fearing  that  I  should  frighten  her,  as  I 
had  often  done  before,  I  moved  a  few  steps 
away  ;  but  she  was  so  lovely  and  Madonna- 
like with  her  mantilla  shading  her  eyes 
and  her  fan  fluttering  slowly  like  a  butter- 
fly,—  now  poising,  now  balancing,  then 
waving  and  settling,  —  that  I  instinctively 
sought  for  my  sketch-book  to  catch  an 
outline  of  her  pose,  feeling  assured  that  I 
should  not  be  discovered.  Before  I  had 
half  finished  she  arose,  slowly  passed  the 
priest,  half  covered  him  with  her  mantilla, 
and  quick  as  thought  slipped  a  white  en- 
velope under  his  prayer-book ! 

It  was  done  so  neatly  and  quickly  and 
with  such  self-possession  that  it  was  some 
time  before  I  recovered  my  equilibrium. 
Had  I  made  any  mistake.''  Could  it  pos- 
sibly be  the  same  demure,  modest,  shy 
seiiorita  of  the  veranda,  or  was  it  not  some 
one    resembling   her  1     All  these  Spanish 


44  ^  Veranda  in  the  Alca^aria 

beauties  have  black  eyes,  I  thought,  carry 
the  colors  of  their  favorite  matador  on 
their  fans,  and  look  alike.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  I  was  mistaken. 

I  determined  to  find  out. 

Before  she  had  reached  the  outer  step 
of  the  church  I  had  overtaken  her,  but  her 
mantilla  was  too  closely  drawn  for  me  to 
see  her  face.  The  duenna,  however,  was  un- 
mistakable, for  she  wore  great  silver  hoops 
in  her  ears  and  an  enormously  high  comb, 
and  once  seen  was  not  easily  forgotten ;  but 
to  be  quite  sure,  I  followed  along  until  she 
entered  the  Alcazaria,  and  so  on  to  the  step 
of  her  house.  If  she  touched  the  old  Moor- 
ish knocker  and  rapped,  it  would  end  it. 

She  lingered  for  a  few  minutes  at  the 
iron  gate,  chatted  with  her  duenna,  watched 
me  cross  the  street,  kept  her  eyes  upon  me 
with  her  old  saintly  look,  patted  her  attend- 
ant on  the  back,  gently  closed  the  gate 
upon  the  good  woman,  leaving  her  on  the 
inside,  then  bent  her  own  pretty  head, 
pushed  back  her  mantilla,  showing  her 
white  throat,  and  flashing  upon  me  from 
the  corner  of  her  eye  the  most  coquettish, 
daring,  and  mischievous  of  glances,  touched 
her  finger-tips  to  her  lips,  and  vanished  ! 


A  Veranda  in  the  Alcaiaria  4^ 

I  had  made  no  mistake  except  in  human 
nature.  Surely  Murillo  must  have  gone  to 
Italy  for  his  Madonnas.  They  were  not  in 
Seville,  if  the  times  have  not  changed, 

I  crossed  over  and  had  a  parting  chat 
with  the  barber.  What  about  the  senorita 
opposite  who  had  just  entered  her  gate? 
"  Ah,  senor  !  She  is  most  lovely.  She  is 
called  The  Pious  ;  but  you  need  not  look 
that  way.  She  is  the  betrothed  of  the 
olive  merchant  who  lives  at  San  Juan,  and 
who  visits  her  every  Sunday.  The  wed- 
ding takes  place  next  month." 

Figaro  believed  it.  I  could  see  it  in  his 
face.     So,  perhaps,  did  the  olive  merchant. 

I  did  not. 


IN  AND  OUT  OF  A  CAB  IN  AMSTER- 
DAM 

It  is  rain- 
ing this  morn- 
ing in  Am- 
sterdam. It 
is  a  way  it  has 
in  Holland. 
The  old  set- 
tlers do  not 
seem  to  mind  it,  but  I  am  only  a  few  days 
from  the  land  of  the  orange  and  the  olive, 
and,  although  these  wet,  silvery  grays  and 
fresh  greens  are  full  of  "  quality,"  I  long 
for  the  deep  blue  skies  and  clear-cut 
shadows  of  sunny  Spain.  On  this  partic- 
ular morning  I  am  in  a  cab  and  in  search 
of  a  certain  fish-market,  and  cabby  is  fol- 
lowing the  directions  given  him  by  a  very 
round  porter  with  a  very  flat  cap  and  a 
deep  bass  voice. 

There  is  nothing  so  comfortable  as  a  cab 
to  paint  in  if  you  only  know  how  to  utilize 


In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam     47 

its  resources.  For  me,  long  practice  has 
brought  it  to  a  fine  art.  First,  I  have 
cabby  take  out  the  horse.  This  prevents 
his  shaking  me  when  he  changes  his  tired 
leg.  He  is  generally  a  spiral-spring-fed 
beast,  and  enjoys  the  relief.  Then  I  take 
out  the  cushions.  This  keeps  them  dry. 
Then  I  close  the  back  and  off-side  curtains, 
so  as  to  concentrate  the  light,  prop  my 
easel  up  against  the  front  seat,  spread  my 
palette  and  brushes  on  the  bare  wooden 
one,  hang  my  rubber  water-bottle  up  to  the 
arm  rest,  and  begin  work.  (I  have  even 
discovered  in  the  bottom  of  certain  cabs 
such  luxuries  as  knot  or  auger  holes 
through  which  to  pour  my  waste  water.) 
I  then  pass  the  umbrella-staff  to  cabby, 
calling  particular  attention  to  the  iron 
spike,  and  explain  how  useful  it  may  be- 
come in  removing  the  inquisitive  small 
boy  from  the  hind  wheel.  One  lesson  and 
two  boys  makes  a  cabby  an  expert.  This 
is  why  I  am  in  a  cab  and  am  driving  down 
the  Keizersgraacht  on  this  very  wet  morn- 
ing in  Amsterdam. 

Before  the  fat  porter's  directions  could 
be  fully  carried  out,  however,  I  caught 
sight  of  an    old    bridge  spanning  a  canal 


48    In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

which  pleased  me  greatly,  and  before  my 
friend  on  the  box  could  realize  the  con- 
sequences I  had  his  horse  out  and  tied  to  a 
wharf  post,  and  the  interior  of  his  cab 
transformed  into  a  studio. 

In  five  minutes  I  discovered  that  a  cab- 
less  horse  and  a  horseless  cab  presided  over 
by  a  cabby  armed  with  an  umbrella-staff 
was  not  an  every-day  sight  in  Amsterdam. 
I  had  camped  on  the  stone  quay  some  dis- 
tance from  the  street  and  out  of  every- 
body's way.  I  congratulated  myself  on 
my  location,  and  felt  sure  I  would  not  be 
disturbed.  On  my  left  was  the  canal 
crowded  with  market-boats  laden  with  gar- 
den-truck ;  on  my  right,  the  narrow  street 
choked  with  the  traffic  of  the  city. 

Suddenly  the  business  of  Amsterdam 
ceased.  Everybody  on  the  large  boats 
scrambled  into  smaller  ones  and  sculled  for 
shore.  Everybody  in  the  street  simulta- 
neously jumped  from  cart,  wagon,  and  door- 
step, and  in  twenty  seconds  I  was  over- 
whelmed by  a  surging  throng,  who  swarmed 
about  my  four-wheeler  and  blocked  up  my 
only  window  with  anxious,  inquiring  faces. 

I  had  been  in  a  crowd  like  this  before, 
and  knew  exactly  what  to  do.     Sphynx-like 


In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam    49 

silence  and  immobility  of  face  are  impera- 
tive. If  you  neither  speak  nor  smile,  the 
mob  imbibes  a  kind  of  respect  for  you 
amounting  almost  to  awe.  Those  nearest 
you,  who  can  see  a  little  and  want  to  see 
more,  unconsciously  become  your  cham- 
pions, and  expostulate  with  those  who  can- 
not see  anything,  cautioning  them  against 
shaking  the  painter  and  obstructing  his 
view. 

This  crowd  was  no  exception  to  the  gen- 
eral rule.  I  noticed,  however,  one  pecul- 
iarity. As  each  Amsterdammer  reached 
my  window  he  would  gaze  silently  at  my 
canvas  and  then  say,  "Ah,  teekenmees- 
ter."  Soon  the  word  went  around  and 
reached  the  belated  citizens  rushing  up, 
who  stopped  and  appeared  satisfied,  as  they 
all  exclaimed,  "Ah,  teekenmeester." 

At  last  commerce  resumed  her  sway. 
The  street  disentangled  itself.  The  mar- 
ket in  cabbages  again  became  active,  and 
I  was  left  comparatively  alone,  always  ex- 
cepting the  small  boy.  The  variety  here 
was  singularly  irritating.  They  mounted 
the  roof,  blocked  up  the  windows,  clam- 
bered up  on  the  front  seat,  until  cabby  be- 
came sufficiently  conversant  with  the  use 


^o    ///  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

of  the  business  end  of  my  umbrella-staff, 
after  which  they  kept  themselves  at  a  re- 
spectful distance. 

Finally  a  calm  settled  down  over  every- 
thing. The  rain  fell  gently  and  contin- 
uously. The  spiral-spring  beast  rested 
himself  on  alternate  legs,  and  the  boys  con- 
templated me  from  a  distance.  Cabby 
leaned  in  the  off  window  and  became  use- 
ful as  a  cup  holder,  and  I  was  rapidly  finish- 
ing my  first  sketch  in  Holland  when  the 
light  was  shut  out,  and  looking  up  I  saw 
the  head  of  an  officer  of  police.  He  sur- 
veyed me  keenly,  —  my  sketch  and  my  in- 
terior arrangements,  —  and  then  in  a  gruff 
voice  gave  me  an  order  in  low  Dutch.  I 
pointed  to  my  staff  holder,  and  continued 
painting.  In  a  moment  the  officer  thrust 
his  head  through  the  off  window  and  re- 
peated his  order  in  high  Dutch.  I  waved 
him  away  firmly,  and  again  referred  him  to 
cabby. 

Then  a  war  began  on  the  outside  in 
which  everybody  took  a  hand,  and  in  half 
a  minute  more  the  population  of  Amster- 
dam had  blocked  up  the  wharf.  I  preserved 
my  Egyptian  exterior,  and  proceeded  un- 
concernedly to  lay  a  fresh  wash  over  my 


In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam     5/ 

sky.  While  thus  occupied,  I  became  con- 
scious that  the  spiral -spring  was  being 
united  once  more  to  the  cab.  This  fact 
became  positive  when  cabby  delivered  up 
the  umbrella-staff  and  opened  the  door, 

I  got  out. 

The  gentleman  in  gilt  buttons  was  at  a 
white  heat.  The  mass-meeting  were  in- 
dulging in  a  running  fire  of  criticism, 
punctuated  by  loose  cabbage  leaves  and  re- 
jected vegetables,  which  sailed,  bomb-like, 
through  the  air,  and  the  upshot  of  the 
whole  matter  was  that  the  officer  ordered 
me  away  from  the  quay  and  into  a  side 
street. 

But  why  .^  The  streets  of  Amsterdam 
were  free.  I  was  out  of  everybody's  way, 
was  breaking  no  law,  and  creating  no  dis- 
turbance. 

At  this  instant  half  of  a  yesterday's  cab- 
bage came  sailing  through  the  atmosphere 
from  a  spot  in  the  direction  of  a  group  of 
wharf-rats,  struck  the  officer's  helmet,  and 
rolled  it  into  the  canal.  A  yell  went  up 
from  the  c/owd,  cabby  went  down  to  tlie 
water  for  the  headgear,  and  the  owner 
drew  his  short  sword  and  charged  on  the 
wharf-rats,  who  suddenly  disappeared. 


^2     ///  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

I  reentered  my  studio,  shut  the  door,  and 
continued  work.  I  concluded  that  it  was 
not  my  funeral. 

I  remember  distinctly  the  situation  at 
this  moment.  I  had  my  water-bottle  in  my 
hand  re-filling  the  cups,  mouth  full  of 
brushes,  palette  on  my  lap,  and  easel 
steadied  by  one  foot.  Suddenly  a  face  sur- 
mounted by  a  wet  helmet,  and  livid  with 
rage,  was  thrust  into  mine,  and  a  three- 
cornered  variety  of  dialect  that  would  pro- 
duce a  sore  throat  in  any  one  except  a 
Dutchman  was  hurled  at  me,  accompanied 
by  the  usual  well-known  "move  on"  ges- 
ture. 

Remembering  the  soothing  influence  ex- 
erted on  the  former  mob,  I  touched  my  hat 
to  his  excellency,  and  said,  "  Teekenmees- 
ter."  The  head  disappeared  like  a  shot, 
and  in  an  instant  I  was  flat  on  my  back  in 
the  bottom  of  the  cab,  bespattered  with 
water,  smeared  with  paint,  and  half  smoth- 
ered under  a  debris  of  cushions,  water- 
cups,  wet-paper,  and  loose  sketches,  and  in 
that  position  was  unceremoniously  jolted 
over  the  stones. 

The  majesty  of  the  law  had  asserted  it- 
self !     I  was  backed  up  in  a  side  street ! 


Ill  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam     5 ^ 

I  broke  ojoen  the  door  and  crawled  out 
in  the  rain.  His  excellency  was  standing 
at  the  head  of  the  spiral-spring,  with  a 
sardonic  grin  on  his  countenance. 

The  mob  greeted  my  appearance  with  a 
shout  of  derision.  I  mounted  the  driver's 
seat  and  harangued  them.  I  asked,  in  a 
voice  which  might  have  been  heard  in  Rot- 
terdam, if  anybody  about  me  understood 
English.  A  shabbily-dressed,  threadbare 
)^oung  fellow  elbowed  his  way  towards  me 
and  said  he  did.  I  helped  him  up  beside 
me  on  the  box  and  addressed  the  multi- 
tude, my  seedy  friend  interpreting.  I  re- 
viewed the  history  of  old  Amsterdam  and 
its  traditions;  its  reputation  for  hospital- 
ity ;  its  powerful  colonies  scattered  over 
the  world ;  its  love  for  art  and  artists. 
Then  I  passed  to  the  greatest  of  all  its  pos- 
sessions, —  the  New  Amsterdam  of  the 
New  World,  my  own  city,  —  and  asked 
them  as  Amsterdammers,  or  the  reverse, 
whether  they  considered  I  had  been  fairly 
treated  in  the  city  of  my  great-grandfathers 
—  I,  a  painter  and  a  New  Yorker! 

I  had  come  three  thousand  miles  to  carry 
home  to  their  children  in  the  New  World 
some  sketches  of  the  grand  old  city  they 


^4    III  ^I'l-^  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

loved  so  well,  and  in  return  I  had  been  in- 
sulted, abused,  bumped  over  the  stones, 
and  made  a  laughing  stock. 

I  v/ould  appeal  to  them  as  brothers  to 
decide  whether  these  streets  of  Amster- 
dam were  not  always  open  to  her  descend- 
ants, and  whether  I  was  not  entitled  to  use 
them  at  all  times  by  virtue  of  my  very 
birthright.  (Another  shout  went  up,  but 
this  time  a  friendly  one.)  This  being  the 
case,  I  proposed  to  reoccupy  my  position 
and  finish  my  sketch.  If  I  had  violated 
any  law  it  was  the  duty  of  the  officer  to 
put  me  under  arrest.  If  not,  then  I  was 
free  to  do  as  I  pleased ;  and  if  the  highly 
honorable  group  of  influential  citizens  about 
me  would  open  their  ranks,  I  would  drive 
the  cab  back  myself  to  the  spot  from  which 
I  had  been  so  cruelly  torn. 

Another  prolonged  shout  followed  the 
interpretation,  an  opening  was  quickly 
made,  and  I  had  begun  to  chafe  the  spiral- 
spring  with  my  shabby  friend's  umbrella, 
when  cabby  rushed  forward,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, seized  the  bridle,  and  begged  me 
piteously  to  desist.  My  friend  then  ex- 
plained that  cabby  would  probably  lose  his 
license  if    I  jaersisted,    although    I    might 


//;  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam     55 

carry  my  point  and  his  cab  back  to  the 
quay. 

This  argument  being  unanswerable,  a 
council  of  war  was  held,  to  which  a  num- 
ber of  citizens  who  were  leaning  over  the 
front  wheels  were  invited,  and  it  was  de- 
cided to  drive  at  once  to  the  nearest  police 
station  and  submit  the  whole  outrage  to 
the  chief. 

In  two  minutes  we  halted  under  the  tra- 
ditional green  glass  lamp  so  familiar  to  all 
frequenters  of  such  places.  We  saluted 
the  sergeant,  and  were  shown  up  a  wind- 
ing iron  staircase  into  a  small  room  and  up 
to  a  long  green  table,  behind  which  sat  a 
baldheaded  old  fellow  in  undress  uniform, 
smoking  a  short  pipe. 

My  threadbare  friend  explained  the  cause 
of  our  visit.  The  old  fellow  looked  sur- 
prised, and  touched  a  bell  which  brought 
in  another  smoker  in  full  dress,  whose  right 
ear  served  as  a  rack  for  a  quill  pen,  and  who 
used  it  (the  pen  not  the  ear)  to  take  down 
our  statement.  Then  the  chief  turned  to 
me  and  asked  my  name.  I  gave  it.  This 
he  repeated  to  the  secretary.  Occupa- 
tion.^ Painter.  "  Teekenmeester,"  said  he 
to  the  secretary. 


^6    III  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam 

Magic  word !  I  have  you  at  last. 
Teekenmeester  is  Dutch  for  painter. 

The  chief  read  the  secretary's  notes, 
signed  them,  and  said  I  should  call  again 
in  ten  days,  and  he  would  submit  a  re- 
port. 

"  Report !  What  do  I  want  with  a  re- 
port, your  imperial  highness  ?  It  is  now 
four  o'clock,  and  I  have  but  two  hours  of 
daylight  to  finish  this  sketch.  I  don't 
want  a  report.  I  want  an  order  compel- 
ling the  pirate  who  presides  over  the  cab- 
bage market  district  to  respect  the  rights 
of  a  descendant  of  Amsterdam  who  is 
peacefully  pursuing  his  avocation."  Cer- 
tainly, he  so  intended.  I  was  at  liberty  to 
replace  my  cab  and  finish  my  sketch.  The 
officer  exceeded  his  instructions. 

But  how  ,''  I  did  not  want  either  to  pro- 
voke a  riot  or  get  my  cabby  into  trouble. 
Ah,  he  understood.  Another  bell  brought 
an  orderly,  who  conducted  us  down-stairs, 
opened  a  side  door,  called  two  officers, 
placed  one  outside  with  cabby  and  the  other 
inside  with  me  and  Threadbare,  and  we 
drove  straight  back  to  the  quay  and  were 
welcomed  by  a  shout  from  my  constituents 
compared  to  which  all  former  cheering  was 


In  and  Out  of  a  Cab  in  Amsterdam    ^y 

a  dead  silence.  I  looked  around  for  his 
excellency,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Verily,  the  majesty  of  the  law  had  as- 
serted itself ! 

I  do  not  think  I  made  much  of  an  im- 
pression as  a  painter  in  Amsterdam,  but  I 
have  always  had  an  idea  that  I  could  be 
elected  alderman  in  the  cabbage  market 
district. 


A    WATER-LOGGED    TOIVN  IN  HOL- 
LAND 


•0^.^< 


Having 
shaken  the 
water  of  Am- 
sterdam from 
off  my  feet,  dust 
being  out  of 
the  question  in 
this  moist  cli- 
mate, I  have 
settled  myself  for  a  month  in  this  sleepy 
old  town  of  Dordrecht  on  the  Maas. 

It  is  a  fair  sample  of  all  Holland,  —  flat, 
wet,  and  quaint ;  full  of  canals,  market 
boats,  red-tiled  roofs,  rosy-cheeked  girls, 
brass  milk  cans,  wooden  shoes,  and  fish. 
Every  inch  of  it  is  as  clean  as  bare  arms, 
scrubbing  brushes,  and  plenty  of  water 
can  make  it.  The  town  possesses  an  old 
gate  built  in  fifteen  hundred  and  some- 
thing, a  Groote  Kerk  built  before  Amer- 
ica was  discovered,  and  several  old  houses 


A   Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland     ^g 

constructed  immediately  thereafter,  to- 
gether with  the  usual  assortment  of 
bridges,  dikes,  market-places,  and  wind- 
mills. 

I  lodge  in  two  rooms  at  the  top  of  a 
crooked  staircase,  and  as  three  sides  of  my 
apartments  overlook  the  Maas  I  see  a  con- 
stant procession  of  Dutch  luggers,  Rhine 
steamers,  and  fishing  smacks.  When  it 
rains  I  paint  from  one  of  my  windows. 
When  it  shines  I  am  along  the  canals  or 
drifting  over  to  Papendrecht,  or  at  work 
under  the  trees  which  fringe  every  street. 

My  fellow  lodgers  afford  me  infinite  en- 
joyment. There  is  a  doctor  who  does  not 
practice,  a  merchant  who  does  no  business, 
and  mine  host  who  is  everybody's  friend, 
and  who  attends  to  everything  in  his  own 
section  of  the  town,  including  his  inn. 

Then  there  is  Johan.  He  is  porter, 
interpreter,  guide,  boots,  railway  agent, 
postal  official,  head  waiter,  and  cook.  He 
assumes  and  sustains  all  these  various 
personages  simply  by  the  changes  possible 
with  a  white  apron,  a  railway  badge,  and 
two  kinds  of  caps,  —  one  flat  and  the  other 
round-topped. 

For  instance,  when    you    arrive    at   the 


6o     A   Water-Loff^ed  Toivn  in  Holland 


-'** 


brisk  little  station  of  Dort,  kept  perma- 
nently awake  by  the  noise  of  constantly 
passing  trains,  Johan  is  waiting  for  you, 
wearing  his  flat-topped  cap  and  porter's 
badge,  and  has  your  luggage  on  his  hand- 
cart before  you  know  it. 

Or  perhaps  at  dinner  you  ask  the  de- 
mure old  butler  for  more  boiled  fish,  and 
on  looking  closely  and  trying  to  recall  his 
face,  you  are  startled  to  recognize  your 
friend  at  the  station  who  handled  your 
trunk.  Johan  enjoys  your  puzzled  look. 
He  knows  it  is  simply  a  question  of  a 
slightly  bald  head  and  white  apron  in  ex- 
change for  a  flat  cap  and  a  badge. 

Later  on  you  ask  for  a  guide  who  speaks 
your  own  language,  whatever  that  may  be. 
A  jaunty  fellow  presents  himself  holding 
his  round-topped  cap  in  his  hand,  and  is 
prepared  to  show  you  the  universe.  It  is 
Johan. 

Besides  this,  he  speaks  the  fag  ends  of 
six  languages,  all  with  a  strong  Dutch  ac- 
cent. He  says  to  me,  "  It  will  some  rain 
more  as  yesterday, — don't  it?"  This  is 
why  I  know  he  is  a  linguist. 

Last  of  all  there  is  Sophy,  who  is  maid 
of  all  work.     She  it  is  who  cares  for   my 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland     6i 

rooms,  sews  on  my  buttons,  wakes  me  in 
the  morning,  and  washes  my  brushes.  She 
is  a  rosy-cheeked  girl  of  twenty,  wears  a 
snow  white  cap  (screwed  to  her  head  with 
two  gold  spirals),  short  skirts,  blue  yarn 
stockings,  and  white  wooden  shoes  ;  and  is 
never  still  one  minute  that  she  is  awake. 

Moreover,  she  has  a  pair  of  arms  as  red 
as  apples  and  about  the  size  of  a  black- 
smith's, which  she  uses  with  a  flail-like 
movement  that  makes  her  dangerous. 
Every  paving-stone,  door-step,  window-sill, 
and  pane  of  glass  within  the  possession  of 
mine  host  knows  all  about  this  pair  of 
arms,  for  Sophy  first  souses  them  with 
great  pails  of  water,  which  she  herself  dips 
from  the  canal,  and  then  polishes  them 
with  a  coarse  towel  until  they  shine  all 
over.  She  has  a  mortal  antipathy  to  dirt 
and  a  high  regard  for  Johan,  whom  she 
looks  upon  as  a  superior  being. 

These  are  my  simple  surroundings  in 
this  water-logged  town.  I  have  only  one 
drawback.  I  do  not  speak  its  liquid  dia- 
lect. 


62     A  Water  Logged  Town  in  Holland 


UNDER   A   BALCONY. 

Behind  the  Groote  Kerk  is  a  moss- 
grown  landing-place,  shaded  by  a  row  of 
trees,  the  trunks  of  which  serve  as  moor- 
ings for  some  broad  Dutch  luggers  floating 
idly  in  the  sluggish  canal.  Away  up 
among  the  branches  are  their  topmasts 
half  hidden  amidst  the  leaves.  Across  this 
narrow  strip  of  water  is  thrown  a  slender 
foot  bridge  to  a  row  of  reddish  brown 
houses  running  Venetian-like  sheer  into 
the  canal,  with  their  overhanging  balconies 
and  windows  filled  with  gay  flowers  in 
bright  China  pots. 

I  have  already  become  quite  intimate 
with  the  domestic  affairs  of  some  of  the  in- 
mates of  these  houses. 

One  three-windowed  balcony  especially 
interests  me.  I  have  never  seen  flowers 
require  so  much  water.  Every  time  I  look 
up  from  my  easel  she  drops  her  eyes  and 
pours  on  another  pitcher.  And  then  the 
pruning  and  trimming  is  something  mar- 
velous !  She  is  a  bright  little  body  with 
big  blue  eyes,  and  the  tangled  vines  and 
flowers  climbing  over  the  quaint  wooden 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland      6^ 

window    make  a  charming  frame  for   her 
pretty  face. 

It  is  difficult  to  paint  under  such  circum- 
stances, and  if  I  over-elaborated  the  details 
of  this  balcony  in  my  sketch,  I  frankly  say 
I  could  not  help  it. 

Suddenly  she  disappears,  and  in  her 
place  stands  a  pleasant-faced  young  Hol- 
lander, having  the  air  of  a  student,  who 
makes  me  a  slight  bow  which  I  gladly  re- 
turn, for  I  am  anxious  to  prove  to  him  how 
honorable  have  been  my  intentions. 

In  a  few  moments  my  fair  window-gar- 
dener comes  tripping  over  the  bridge  bear- 
ing a  small  tray,  which,  to  my  great  aston- 
ishment, she  lays  at  my  feet  on  the  clean 
flagging. 

She  makes  no  reply  to  my  thanks  ex- 
cept with  her  eyes,  and,  before  I  am  half 
through  with  my  little  speech,  is  over  the 
bridge  and  out  of  sight. 

The  tray  contains  some  thin  slices  of 
cheese,  a  few  biscuits,  and  a  pot  of  milk. 
This  is  almost  immediately  followed  by  the 
student  himself,  who  holds  out  his  hand 
heartily,  which  I  grasp,  and  who  addresses 
me  in  Dutch,  accompanied  by  those  pecul- 
iar nods  and  frowns  common  to  all  of  us 


64      A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

when  we  are  sure  we  are  not  understood. 
I  sadly  shake  my  head. 

Then  he  tries  Italian.  I  shrug  my 
shoulders  in  a  hopeless  way. 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  then,  it  may  be  that  you 
speak  some  English?"  I  wanted  to  fall 
upon  his  neck. 

"  Speak  English,  my  dear  sir  }  It  is  my 
favorite  language.  Let  us  converse  in 
English,  by  all  means.  But  where  did  you 
learn  it .'' " 

"  Here  in  Dordrecht.     Where  did  you  }  " 

"  I .''  Oh,  in  America.  My  mother 
spoke  it  perfectly." 

"  How  interesting !  I  was  not  aware 
you  Spaniards  spoke  it  with  so  little  accent. 
I  do  not  speak  Spanish  myself,  for  which  I 
am  truly  sorry.     It  is  so  musical." 

Now  that  was  very  kind  of  him.  I  knew 
that  I  had  absorbed  during  my  two  months' 
residence  in  Spain  something  of  the  air  of 
an  Hidalgo,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  this  ! 

He  was  glad  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  Spanish  painter.  He  so  much  ad- 
mired our  school.  He  had  been  in  his 
study  and  had  watched  me  all  the  morning, 
and  finding  me  still  at  work  at  lunch  hour 
had  taken  the  liberty  of  sending  his  sister 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland     65 

with  the  tray.  It  was  a  leisure  month 
with  him,  the  college  being  closed.  He 
would  like  to  watch  me  paint,  especially 
now  that  he  knew  his  own  windows  formed 
part  of  the  picture. 

An  hour  later  the  pretty  sister  is  filling 
his  pipe  and  my  empty  cup  in  a  cosy  little 
room  with  windows  filled  with  flowers, 
through  which  I  can  see  my  sketching 
ground  of  the  morning. 

She  has  donned  another  cap  more  be- 
witching than  the  first  and  is  busying  her- 
self about  the  room.  It  is  a  cosy  little  den, 
and  rests  you  to  sit  in  it.  The  walls  are 
lined  with  shelves,  laden  with  books.  The 
tables  are  covered  with  French,  English, 
and  German  magazines,  pamphlets,  and  pa- 
pers. A  student's  lamp,  a  few  rare  etch- 
ings, some  choice  bits  of  porcelain,  and 
three  or  four  easy  chairs  complete  the  in- 
terior. 

While  we  smoke  my  host  begs  me  tell 
him  something  of  Spain  and  my  people, 
and  when  I  undeceive  him  as  to  my  nation- 
ality he  laughs  heartily,  and  is  doubly  glad 
to  make  the  discovery,  for  now  that  he 
knows  I  hail  from  one  of  the  colonies  I  am 
of  course  a  kinsman  of  his.     He  explains 


66     A  lVater-Los:mi  Town  in  Holland 


^At> 


that  he  had  mistaken  me  for  a  Spaniard 
because  as  he  watched  me  from  his  study 
window  he  noticed  that  I  smoked  cigar- 
ettes and  twisted  my  moustache  ! 

Late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  knock  the 
ashes  from  my  third  pipe  he  insists  on 
accompanying  me  to  my  boat,  and  before 
we  part  we  exchange  cards  and  arrange  for 
a  Uttle  dinner  at  my  rooms  the  next  day 
for  three. 

Verily  a  white  umbrella  is  better  than  a 
Letter  of  Credit ! 

As  soon  as  I  reached  my  lodgings  I  sent 
for  Johan  and  handed  him  my  host's  card. 
"  Who  is  that  gentleman  ? "  His  eyes 
opened  very  wide.  "  Dot  yentleman  ? 
Dot  yentleman,  Mynheer,  is  the  professor 
of  English  at  the  university." 

A  DAY  WITH  THE  PROFESSOR. 

I  tell  the  professor  he  is  a  godsend  to 
me,  for  while  I  am  all  ears  and  eyes  and 
have  something  of  a  nose  for  poking  into 
odd  places,  he  supplies  me  with  a  tongue, 
which  completes  my  equipment.  He  re- 
turns the  compliment  by  saying  I  am  the 
only  gentleman  speaking  English  he  has 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland     6y 

ever  met,  and  that  his  pronunciation  is  im- 
proving daily.  I  remark  to  him  that  either 
EngHshmen  or  poHteness  have  been  very- 
scarce  in  Dordrecht  heretofore,  at  which 
he  laughs  and  says  he  shall  never  over- 
come all  the  peculiarities  of  my  language. 

Under  his  guidance  I  have  ransacked 
every  crook,  cranny,  and  sluiceway  in  this 
curious  old  town.  This  morning  being 
Friday,  we  go  to  the  market.  It  is  a  small 
open  square  on  one  side  of  the  Voorstraat. 
It  is  really  the  floor  of  a  great  stone  bridge, 
for  the  canal  runs  beneath  it. 

In  every  town  in  Holland  on  market 
day  you  will  find  two  stalls  which  may  in- 
terest you,  —  one  is  the  junkman's,  who 
sells  old  iron,  hinges,  locks,  and  broken 
kitchen  ware,  and  sometimes  rusty  swords, 
fragments  of  armor,  and  rare  old  brass  and 
copper  utensils,  battered  and  bruised. 
The  other  contains  old  books,  engravings, 
and  prints. 

Successive  Friday  mornings  have  added 
to  my  own  stock  of  bric-a-brac,  but  this 
morning  it  is  the  professor  who  hugs  all 
the  way  back  to  my  improvised  studio 
three  great  Dutch  books  for  which  he  says 
he  has  looked  for  months. 


68     A  Water-Lossed  Town  in  Holland 


■'b& 


He  wondered  yesterd-ay  why  I  stopped 
the  milkmaid  on  the  street  and  bought  her 
heirloom  of  a  milk-can  covered  with  scars 
and  patches  and  shining  like  gold,  but  to- 
day he  is  even  more  astonished  at  the  mis- 
cellaneous assortment  of  rusty  iron  hinges, 
locks,  and  handles  I  have  picked  out,  and 
which  with  the  assistance  of  an  aged  lock- 
smith and  his  wife  will  soon  be  restored  to 
their  pristine  polish. 

But  I  have  an  old  Dutch  cabinet  at  home 
which  has  waited  for  these  irons  for  years, 
and  the  milk-can  exactly  fits  the  shelf  on 
the  top. 

He  raves,  however,  about  these  old 
books  ;  tells  me  that  Mynheer  somebody 
or  other,  whose  name  is  full  of  o'&  and  fs, 
wrote  this  treatise  in  the  last  century,  and 
that  there  has  been  a  great  dispute  about 
it  ;  that  a  spurious  edition  was  published 
which  at  one  time  was  accepted  ;  that  he 
had  looked  for  the  original  for  many 
months.  Then  he  removes  his  pipe,  blows 
the  blue  smoke  out  of  my  window,  and 
fondly  pats  the  cover. 

I  think  to  myself  as  I  look  at  him  with 
his  high  forehead,  deep,  keen  eyes,  and 
thoughtful  look,  what  a  thorough  Bohemian 


A  Water -Logged  Town  in  Holland     69 

he  would  have  made  if  he  had  only  taken 
to  paint  and  bric-a-brac  instead  of  lan- 
guages and  literature. 

The  clack  of  Sophy's  wooden  shoes  hur- 
rying up-stairs  announces  breakfast,  which 
Johan  serves  with  more  than  usual  solem- 
nity owing  to  the  professor's  presence,  and 
also  to  the  fact  that  for  three  days  no  one 
has  arrived  at  our  inn,  and  consequently 
his  attention  has  not  been  diverted  from 
his  table  to  the  duties  of  either  porter,  rail- 
way official,  or  guide. 

This  over,  Sophy  clatters  across  the 
clean  cobbles  to  the  stone  quay,  and  bales 
the  rain  of  last  night  from  my  boat,  and 
the  professor  and  I  drift  down  the  Wagen- 
sluis  to  where  some  overhanging  balconies 
shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain  an  old  barge, 
the  bow  of  which  serves  as  a  foreground 
for  a  sketch  I  am  finishing  of  the  canal 
with  the  Groote  Kerk  in  the  distance. 
While  I  paint  he  smokes  and  reads,  and 
nods  to  the  passing  boats,  and  tells  me 
stories  of  the  people  about  us  and  the  cur- 
rent gossip  of  the  town,  and  so  the  hours 
slip  by. 

Then,  as  the  shadows  lengthen  and  my 
work  is  over,  we  row  back  and  out  on  the 


yo     A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

broad  Maas,  and  watch  the  sun  set  behind 
the  big  windmill  at  Papendrecht,  and  the 
Dutch  luggers  anchored  in  pairs  in  mid- 
stream waiting  for  a  change  in  the  tide  to 
float  them  to  Rotterdam  and  a  market. 

When  the  sun  goes  down  and  it  becomes 
quite  dark  we  drift  back,  picking  our  way 
among  the  market  boats  moored  for  the 
night  along  the  quays,  and  up  to  a  flight  of 
wooden  steps  slippery  with  ooze  and  slime 
and  well  known  to  both  of  us.  It  is  the 
nearest  landing  to  a  small  beer  house 
which  we  frequent. 

The  landlord  greets  us  heartily,  and 
takes  down  two  pewter-topped  mugs  from 
a  row  against  the  wall,  and  spreads  a  clean 
cloth  over  one  of  the  tables  overlooking 
the  dark  canal  with  its  flickering  mast-head 
lights  and  deep  shadows. 

Before  we  can  blow  the  froth  from  our 
mugs  the  landlord  returns  with  a  dish  of 
cold  boiled  potatoes,  some  leaves  of  lettuce, 
and  the  castors,  and  the  professor  proceeds 
with  great  gravity  to  peel  and  slice,  pour 
on  the  oil  and  vinegar,  adding  a  pinch  of 
salt,  and  finishing  the  whole  with  crisp 
sprigs  of  lettuce,  which  he  plants  here  and 
there  on  the  top. 


A  Water-Logged  Toivn  in  Holland      yi 

A  cup  of  coffee,  cigarettes,  and  pipes,  a 
few  strokes  of  the  oars,  and  I  bid  the  pro- 
fessor good-night  at  the  landing  nearest  his 
house,  and  so  on  to  mine. 

Johan  thrusts  his  head  from  the  side 
window  at  my  third  ring,  unlocks  the  door, 
and  lights  for  me  a  slender  candle.  As  I 
climb  the  crooked  staircase,  I  overhear 
him  yawning  and  muttering  to  himself, 
"Dot  veller  von  America  shleep  netting." 

A  VISIT  FROM  THE  DOCTOR. 

From  the  windows  of  my  rooms  I  can 
see  the  only  busy  spot  in  all  Dordrecht. 
It  is  the  wharf  immediately  beneath  me, 
where  all  the  Rhine  steamers  land,  and 
which  is  crowded  all  day  long  with  groups 
of  people  either  going  to  or  coming  from 
the  different  small  towns  and  villages  up 
and  down  this  outlet  to  the  sea. 

On  rainy  days  I  draw  the  curtains  wide 
apart,  fasten  back  the  shutters,  set  up  my 
easel,  and  pick  out  a  subject  from  the  mov- 
ing panorama  below.  The  wharf  is  piled 
high  with  garden  truck  in  huge  wicker 
baskets,  boxes  of  fish,  rows  of  brass  milk 
cans  reflecting  their  polished  sides  in  the 


72      A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

wet  pavements,  furniture,  crates  of  crock- 
ery, and  the  usual  assortment  of  small 
merchandise.  On  its  wet  planks  the 
leave-takings  and  welcomings  occur  every 
half  hour  ;  that  is,  upon  the  arrival  and  de- 
parture of  each  boat,  and  during  the  whole 
day  it  seems  as  if  all  the  vitality  and  energy 
of  Dordrecht  had  concentrated  itself  under 
my  window.  Elsewhere  the  town  is  fast 
asleep. 

Out  on  the  Maas  the  lazy  luggers  with 
their  red  and  white  sails  float  by,  the 
skipper's  wife  usually  holding  the  tiller. 
Across  the  marshes  the  sails  of  the  wind- 
mills turn  lazily  as  if  it  were  an  exertion 
for  them  to  move,  and  over  all  falls  the 
gentle  rain. 

On  these  days  I  have  many  knocks  at 
my  door  announcing  various  visitors.  The 
doctor  generally  drops  in  early.  He  is  a 
cheery  old  soul,  and  although  he  speaks 
very  little  English,  I  have  picked  up 
enough  broken  Dutch  to  piece  out  with, 
and  so  we  get  on  very  well.  His  pic- 
turesque faded  green  coat,  yellow  nankeen 
waistcoat,  and  red  necktie  make  him  very 
valuable  around  a  studio. 

Then  he  is  never  in  the  way.     He  raps, 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland     73 

opens  the  door,  sees  me,  shuts  it,  raps 
again  gently,  and  then  comes  in  with  an 
air  of  surprise  mingled  with  genuine  de- 
light at  finding  me,  fills  his  pipe  from  my 
tobacco-box,  spreads  himself  on  my  lounge, 
and  smokes  away  quietly. 

I  would  love  him  for  this  quality  alone, 
even  if  he  had  no  other,  —  for  it  is  a  rare 
kind  of  man  who  can  come  noiselessly 
into  your  studio  when  you  are  at  work, 
dispense  with  more  than  a  nod  of  greeting, 
slide  into  a  seat,  help  himself  to  a  pipe,  and 
so  unconsciously  become  one  of  your  sur- 
roundings. 

Besides,  the  doctor  is  especially  inter- 
ested in  the  small  collection  of  old  brass, 
hammered  iron,  and  bric-a-brac  I  have 
made  since  my  sojourn  with  them  all  at  the 
inn,  and  which  is  scattered  about  my  room, 
and  he  takes  the  greatest  delight  in  exam- 
ining each  new  addition  that  I  make. 

To-day  he  is  brimful.  He  has  heard  of 
a  man  who  lives  on  the  quay  near  the  po- 
tato market,  just  returned  from  Friesland, 
who  has  enou2;h  old  Dutch  leather  to  cover 
the  walls  of  my  two  rooms,  and  all  perfect 
and  of  one  pattern,  and  very  cheap  ! 

I    look    incredulous,    and    hint   that  so 


7^     A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

much  leather  of  one  pattern  did  not  exist 
in  all  Holland  outside  of  a  museum,  and 
perhaps  not  in  one.  But  he  will  not  listen. 
He  insists  that  the  man  bought  the  whole 
house,  and  then  pulled  it  to  pieces  for  the 
leather  which  lined  the  walls  of  one  room. 
The  potato  market  was  close  by,  the  rain 
was  nearly  over,  and  I  must  go  with  him 
at  once.  I  knew  the  potato  market  and 
the  quay,  for  I  had  painted  them  the  week 
before  with  a  pretty  milk  girl  carrying  her 
cans  across  the  foreground  of  my  picture. 
So  to  oblige  him  I  take  down  my  storm 
coat  from  its  peg,  and  we  tramp  through 
the  wet  streets  to  the  market  and  up  to  a 
small  house,  the  front  of  which  is  built  on 
an  angle,  so  that  the  third  story  windows 
le^  over  the  sidewalk.  This  enables  the 
occupants  to  see  who  comes  in  the  front 
door  without  going  down-stairs,  —  not  an 
unusual  style  of  house,  by  the  way,  in  Hol- 
land. 

"  Would  Mynheer  show  the  painter  from 
America  the  leather  he  had  in  the  gar- 
ret ? " 

Mynheer  at  first  did  not  have  any  leather 
at  all  in  the  garret ;  then  he  had  only  a 
few  pieces,  but  they  were  not  there  ;  then 


A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland      y<y 

he  could  get  some  more  if  we  would  call 
the  next  day. 

But  this  did  not  suit  the  doctor.  He 
knew  all  about  it.  He  had  a  friend  who 
had  seen  it.  Mynheer  need  not  expect  to 
keep  the  leather  for  the  rich  Englishman. 
The  American  painter  would  pay  more. 

At  this  the  old  Shylock  led  the  way  up 
an  almost  perpendicular  staircase.  The 
doctor  was  right.  There  lay  the  leather 
in  flat  sheets  and  of  a  quality  and  quantity 
that  proved  tlfe  truth  of  the  whole  story, 
but  the  price  demanded  would  have  ruined 
the  American  painter. 

On  the  way  home  the  old  fellow  built  up 
and  destroyed  a  dozen  schemes  by  which  I 
was  to  get  the  leather  at  half  its  value  or 
my  own  price,  none  of  which  would  have 
been  possible  without  the  permission  of  the 
police. 

The  next  morning  a  much  softer  knock 
than  usual  announces  the  good  doctor, 
wearing  so  sad  a  face  that  I  fear  some  ca- 
lamity has  overtaken  him.  He  only  shakes 
his  head  and  puffs  away.  Then  it  leaks 
out  that  on  his  way  to  the  post  he  had 
seen  Shylock  packing  on  the  sidewalk  a 
long,  wide,  flat  box,  marked  London.  The 
Englishman  had  bought  the  leather. 


^6      A  Water-Logged  Town  in  Holland 

Since  then  the  doctor  often  starts  up 
from  my  lounge  after  a  long  reverie, 
knocks  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  lays  his 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  looks  at  me  sadly, 
and  says,  "  Dot  Englishman  !  "  And  then 
goes  out  shaking  his  head  ominously.  In- 
cidents hke  these  in  my  quiet  life  at  this 
charming  old  inn  make  even  rainy  days 
pleasant  in  Dordrecht. 


ON  THE  RIl^A,  VENICE 

My  gondolier,  Ingenio,  is  a  wrinkled  old 
sea-dog,  with  gray  hair  and  stooping  shoul- 
ders, who  has  the  air  of  a  retired  buccaneer 
and  the  voice  of  a  girl.  His  gondola  has 
been  my  home  for  a  month  past,  and  he 
has  been  my  constant  companion.  As  he 
speaks  nothing  but  Italian  and  I  nothing 
resembling  it,  we  have  adopted  a  sign  lan- 
guage which  answers  perfectly.  This 
morning  he  comes  through  the  garden 
where  I  am  taking  my  coffee,  points  to  his 
gondola  floating  at  the  foot  of  the  marble 
steps  leading  to  the  Grand  Canal,  touches 
his  forehead,  then  his  pocket,  holds  up  two 
fingers  and  motions  as  if  to  sit  down.  I 
understand  at  once  that  he  has  thought  of 
a  new  shop  where  for  a  few  francs  we  can 
buy  two  antique  chairs,  of  a  pattern  es- 
pecially desired  by  me. 

These  chairs  have  greatly  bothered  In- 
genio.    Under  the  plea  of   searching   for 


y8  On  the  Rim 

them,  I  have  ransacked  half  the  old  palaces 
in  Venice,  and  have  discovered  most  mar- 
velous rooms,  with  ceilings  of  carved 
beams  edged  v/ith  gilt,  with  faded  fres- 
coes, exquisite  marble  staircases  leading 
thereto,  and  often  quaint  and  picturesque 
interiors  inhabited  by  the  present  genera- 
tion. 

I  have,  of  course,  found  every  variety  of 
chair,  old  and  new,  but  the  search  has  been 
so  delightful,  and  the  discoveries  have  par- 
taken so  much  of  the  unexpected,  that  I 
refuse  to  be  satisfied  with  any  of  them, 
and  so  continue  my  explorations  ;  Ingenio 
poking  the  nose  of  his  gondola  into  every 
crooked  canal  in  Venice,  and  I  my  own  up 
one  half  of  her  equally  crooked  staircases 
and  across  many  an  old  courtyard  and 
damp,  mould-covered  garden. 

But  this  morning  I  shook  my  head, 
which  was  full  of  another  and  a  more 
brilliant  idea,  —  an  idea  which  I  conveyed 
to  Ingenio  by  pointing  down  the  canal 
with  my  umbrella  staff,  putting  up  my 
hands  like  a  little  praying  Samuel,  and 
sketching  an  imaginary  bridge  on  the 
tablecloth  with  my  coffee  spoon. 

Ingenio  understood  at  once.     He  knew 


On  the  Riva  79 

that  I  wanted  to  paint  the  bridge  near  the 
old  church  on  the  Riva  degU  Schiavoni. 

In  five  minutes  we  were  floating  past  the 
Piazza  and  San  Marco,  and  in  as  many- 
more  had  reached  the  quay  near  the  Church 
of  the  Santa  Maria  della  Pieta. 

I  had  seen  a  group  of  fishing  boats 
moored  here  as  I  drifted  past  the  afternoon 
before,  and  I  reasoned  that,  as  the  tide  did 
not  change  until  noon,  there  was,  perhaps, 
time  to  catch  them  before  they  spread 
their  gorgeous  wings  of  red  and  gold  and 
flew  away  to  their  homes  in  Chioggia. 

We  landed  at  the  small  piazza  which 
formed  the  quay,  at  the  end  of  which  ran 
a  flight  of  marble  steps  up  and  over  the 
bridge.  To  the  left  of  this  were  moored 
the  boats  with  all  sails  set,  hanging  listless 
in  the  still  air.  In  front  was  the  white 
marble  pavement  baking  in  the  sun. 

I  soon  found  the  open  door  of  the  Santa 
Maria  was  my  only  shelter  from  the  blind- 
ing heat.  By  hugging  one  side  of  the 
porch,  and  resting  one  leg  of  my  easel 
against  the  lower  hinge,  I  was  sheltered  in 
the  shadow,  and  could  still  see  the  subject 
of  my  picture  entire.  So  without  more 
ado,  I  opened  my  folding  seat  and  unlimb- 


8o  On  the  Riva 

ered  my  trap,  while  Ingenio  filled  the 
water  bottles. 

There  are  so  many  white  umbrellas  and 
floating  studios  in  Venice  that  an  artist  at 
work  excites  very  little  curiosity.  Occa- 
sionally the  novelty  of  my  position  would 
tempt  some  penitent  to  glance  over  my 
shoulder,  as  she  entered  the  church,  mak- 
ing room  lest  she  disturb  me,  but  with  this 
exception  I  worked  on  without  interrup- 
tion. 

As  the  heat  increased,  the  worshipers 
grew  less  numerous  and  the  quay  became 
nearly  deserted.  Ingenio,  who  had  gone 
to  sleep  in  the  shadow,  was  now  broiling 
in  the  sun,  and  my  left  or  palette  hand  felt 
scorching  hot. 

But  these  are  trifles  when  you  have  two 
fishing  boats  half  finished,  the  tide  to  turn 
in  two  hours,  and  you  begin  to  note  the 
crew  already  moving  about  and  restlessly 
handling  the  ropes.  You  grow  nervous 
every  time  a  man  goes  ashore,  lest  he  shall 
cast  off  the  moorings,  and  so  wreck  your 
morning's  work. 

Suddenly  a  sunbeam  shot  across  the  up- 
per corner  of  my  canvas.  I  looked  around 
and  up.     The  sun  was  slanting  over  and 


On  the  Riva  8i 

down  the  cornice  of  the  church,  and  with 
such  intensity  that  I  felt  an  immediate 
change  of  base  imperative.  You  cannot 
see  color  by  the  side  of  a  sunbeam. 

In  Venice,  when  your  best  friends  fail 
and  life  begins  to  be  a  burden,  you  have 
o'ne  resource,  —  you  call  for  your  gondolier. 
So  I  awoke  Ingenio.  He  appreciated  the 
situation  at  once.  He  ran  to  the  gondola, 
brought  back  my  large  umbrella,  and 
wasted  ten  minutes  of  my  precious  time  in 
attempting  to  drive  its  spiked  staff  into  a 
flight  of  polished  marble  steps.  The  only 
result  was  the  loss  of  the  spike  and  the 
little  that  remained  of  my  good  temper. 

After  this  failure  I  decided  that  heroic 
treatment  was  all  that  was  left.  I  first 
pointed  to  my  half-finished  sails,  seized  the 
ropes  in  an  imaginary  sort  of  way  as  if  low- 
ering them,  and  then  lifted  my  hands  in 
despair.  Then  I  gave  him  two  francs,  and 
followed  him  with  my  eyes  as  he  disap- 
peared over  the  bridge  and  reappeared  on 
the  deck  of  one  of  the  boats. 

A  row  of  grinning  faces  all  looked  my 
way,  and  in  a  moment  more  Ingenio  re- 
turned without  the  money  and  with  one  of 
the  fishermen.     The  latter  gazed  silently 


82  On  the  Riva 

at  my  sketch  and  said,  "  Buono."  I  was 
reassured.  The  sails  were  safe,  at  all 
events.  But  the  heat  continued  to  be 
frightful. 

Another  pantomime  then  followed  with 
Ingenio,  to  which  the  fisherman  lent  a 
helping  hand.  I  unfolded  my  plan  slowly 
and  with  some  misgivings.  Ingenio  turned 
a  trifle  pale  and  the  fisherman  looked  some- 
what alarmed.  Five  francs  more,  and  a 
pleasanter  expression  asserted  itself  in  the 
latter's  face.  Then  they  both  measured 
the  distance  between  the  two  doors,  found 
an  iron  hook  high  up  on  the  mouldings 
over  the  arch,  returned  to  the  boats,  and  in 
five  minutes  I  had  rigged  an  orange-colored 
jib  sail  across  the  entrance  of  the  church, 
and  had  crawled  in  underneath,  out  of  the 
sun,  into  its  grateful  shadow ! 

I  do  not  offer  any  apology  for  this.  I 
distinctly  vow  that  I  intended  no  disre- 
spect to  the  most  holy  Maria  della  Pieta. 
I  was  simply  backed  up  into  a  church  door 
on  the  sunny  side  of  a  quay,  with  the  ther- 
mometer in  the  nineties,  an  unfinished 
sketch  before  me,  a  marble  wall  behind 
me,  and  but  two  hours  of  tide  remaining. 
The  effect  of  a  jib  sail  on  Venetian  church 


On  the  Riva  8^ 

architecture  was  not  under  consideration 
by  me.  The  possible  loss  of  one  in  my 
picture  was  at  the  moment  of  greater  im- 
portance. 

At  that  instant  the  horror-stricken  and 
very  oily  face  of  a  well-fed  priest  peered 
into  my  improvised  tent,  and  from  it  fol- 
lowed a  torrent  of  Italian.  I  raised  my  hat 
meekly,  bowed  reverently,  and  pointed  to 
Ingenio.  While  the  discussion  lasted,  I 
managed  to  finish  the  rigging,  the  awning 
on  deck,  and  the  gondola  alongside,  but 
the  crisis  had  arrived.  I  must  either  take 
in  the  jib  or  go  with  the  priest.  This  sen- 
timent seemed  also  to  be  shared  by  the 
crowd.  I  preferred  the  latter,  and  detail- 
ing the  fisherman  to  stand  by  and  "repel 
boarders,"  I  called  Ingenio,  and  followed 
his  oiliness  through  the  cool  church,  down  a 
long  passage,  and  up  to  a  dark  green  door 
heavily  hinged  and  locked. 

The  priest  touched  a  bell,  footsteps  were 
heard,  and  a  sliding  panel  revealed  the  sad 
face  of  a  nun.  A  word  of  explanation  fol- 
lowed, the  bolts  were  shot  back,  and  I 
found  myself  in  a  small  vestibule  leading 
into  a  low  room,  white,  bare,  and  scrupu- 
lously clean.     In  a  moment  more  the  nun 


84  On  the  Riva 

returned,  bringing  the  Mother  Superior. 
I  saluted  her  as  if  she  had  been  the  Queen 
of  Sheba.  She  listened  incredulously  to 
the  voluble  priest  as  he  elaborated  the  out- 
rage, and  then  indignantly  turned  to  In- 
genio,  who  hung  his  head  and  chewed  the 
rim  of  his  hat.  Then  she  raised  both  hands 
as  if  in  amazement,  looked  me  straight  in 
the  face,  and  slowly  shook  her  head.  The 
sad-faced  nun  waited,  and  heard  me  expos- 
tulate in  my  choicest  English  that  I  had 
the  greatest  reverence  for  every  church  in 
Italy  and  for  every  Lady  Superior.  I  only 
objected  to  the  climate,  and  to  the  fact  that 
this  particular  church  was  not  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  quay. 

Then  the  nun  slipped  away,  and  pres- 
ently returned  with  a  sister  in  gray,  who 
had  the  face  of  a  Madonna  and  the  voice 
of  an  angel,  and  an  English  angel  at  that. 
She  questioned  the  priest,  then  Ingenio, 
then  the  sad-faced  nun,  and  then  turned  to 
me. 

Did  the  painter  speak  Italian }  Not  a 
word.  Furthermore,  he  was  a  stranger  in 
a  foreign  land,  away  from  the  home  of  his 
childhood,  without  friends  except  this  poor 
gondolier,  his  only  possession  being  a  half- 


On  the  Riva  8^ 

finished  sketch  and  a  jib  sail,  for  both  of 
which  he  pleaded. 

She  listened,  half  smiling,  and  said  the 
priest  need  not  remain,  and  perhaps  the 
gondolier  had  best  return  and  watch  my 
easel ;  the  good  mother  need  not  be 
alarmed.  There  was  some  mistake.  She 
would  return  to  the  church  with  the  painter 
and  verify  the  good  priest's  story. 

I  stopped  for  a  moment  as  she  made  her 
devotions  at  the  altar.  As  we  reached  the 
outer  door  she  caught  sight  of  the  jib,  and 
stood  still  as  if  shocked.  My  yellow  rag 
was  waving  in  the  sunlight  as  defiant  as  a 
matador's  cloak ! 

Stooping  under  the  improvised  awning, 
she  closely  examined  the  sketch.  How 
long  would  it  take  to  finish  it  ?  Half  an 
hour.  Be  quick  about  it,  then.  If  I  did 
not  mind,  she  would  watch  me  paint.  She' 
stood  for  a  long  time  without  speaking, 
and  then  said,  "  Would  not  a  touch  of  rose 
madder  help  that  shadow  >  "  "  You  paint, 
then  } "  I  asked,  following  her  suggestion. 
"  I  did  once,"  she  replied,  and  turned  her 
head  sadly  and  looked  out  over  the  blue 
lagoon  towards  San  Giorgio. 

An  hour  later  she  watched  Ingenio  and 


86  On  the  Riva 

the  fisherman  take  down  the  jib  and  re- 
turn it  to  the  boats.  But  she  would  not 
receive  my  thanks.  All  artists  were  her 
friends.  The  sail  made  no  difference,  the 
sun  was  too  hot  to  work  without  it,  and 
she  understood  it  all  when  she  saw  the 
sketch.  She  would  close  the  church  door. 
I  need  not  wait.  I  drifted  slowly  out  into 
the  lagoon  and  looked  back.  She  was  still 
standing  in  the  archway,  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  and  watching  us. 

Then  the  fishing  boats  spread  their'sails, 
drifted  past,  and  shut  her  from  my  sight. 
Ingenio's  cry  of  warning  as  he  rounded  a 
turn  in  the  canal  awoke  me  from  my  rev- 
erie. I  picked  up  my  sketch  and  stepped 
ashore.  I  will  give  it  to  any  one  who  will 
tell  me  the  history  of  that  good  gray  nun. 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY  IN  l^ EN  ICE 


Below  the 
Piazza  and 
quite  near  the 
Pubhc  Gar- 
den there  is 
a  small  wine 
shop,  the 
open  door  of 
_  which  is  cov- 

.  '  ered  by  a 
striped  awn- 
ing of  red  and  orange.  Underneath  this 
at  all  times  of  the  day  and  most  of  the 
night  are  collected  a  group  of  Italians,  who 
have  one  object  in  life  which  they  never 
lose  sight  of, — never  to  do  to-day  what 
they  can  possibly  do  to-morrow  or  the  next 
week.  If  time  is  money,  the  average  Ve- 
netian is  a  millionaire.  He  has  stored  up 
for  present  and  future  use  such  a  vast 
amount  of  leisure  that  it  makes  a  busy  man 
envious  to  contemplate  him. 


88  A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice 

If  you  leave  your  gondola  and  cross  the 
sun-baked  quay  to  this  shelter,  these  aris- 
tocrats will  make  room  for  you  at  their  ta- 
ble and  hand  you  a  flagon  of  tepid  water 
and  a  saucer  containing  two  lumps  of 
sugar  ;  or  perhaps  the  landlord  will  bring 
you  a  bottle  of  Cerise  (cherry  juice)  and  a 
thin  cigar  about  the  size  and  length  of  a 
shoestring.  The  cigar  has  a  movable 
backbone  of  a  single  broom  straw. 

Inside  of  this  retreat  are  small  tables, 
around  which  are  seated  other  nabobs 
drinking  coffee  and  playing  dominoes.  Oc- 
casionally one  will  rise  from  his  seat,  ap- 
proach a  high  table  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
select  a  small  bit  of  dried  fish  from  a  pew- 
ter platter,  and  gravely  resume  his  chair 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  really  owned  the 
whole  fish,  but  allowed  the  landlord  to  keep 
it  on  his  sideboard  merely  as  a  mark  of  the 
high  esteem  in  which  he  held  him. 

Should  you  land  immediately  opposite 
the  awning  and  the  open  door,  so  as  to  be 
quite  within  sight  from  the  inside,  one  of 
these  princes  will  slide  from  his  seat  very 
much  as  a  turtle  does  from  his  log  and  hold 
your  boat  steady  with  his  staff  until  you 
step  ashore.      For  this    service   you  give 


A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice  89 

him  one  penny,  and  quite  a  small  penny  at 
that. 

A  turn  of  Ingenio's  wrist  whirled  the 
sharp  blade  of  my  gondola  close  to  this 
quay  one  lovely  morning  in  August  with 
results  to  me  exactly  similar  to  what  I  have 
described,  and  in  a  moment  more  I  was 
dropping  my  second  lump  into  the  clumsy 
little  cup  which  the  landlord  filled  from  the 
common  pot. 

What  to  paint  to-day  was  the  question 
that  bothered  me.  Should  I  go  back  to 
the  Rialto  and  try  the  flight  of  steps  up 
from  the  canal  with  the  gondolas  and  boats 
in  the  foreground,  or  the  view  from  the 
Piazzetta  across  the  small  fruit-market 
with  the  Great  Bridge  in  the  distance,  or 
should  I  keep  on  to  the  Public  Gardens 
and  catch  the  fishing  boats  as  they  came 
across  from  the  Lido  .'' 

Ingenio  stood  by,  hat  in  hand,  trying  to 
read  my  thoughts.  It  is  delightful  to 
watch  him.  He  starts  off  with  a  great 
show  of  enthusiasm,  points  up  the  canal, 
seizes  a  cup,  turns  it  upside  down,  plants  a 
fork  beside  it,  and  by  this  pantomime  seeks 
to  recall  to  me  a  spot  in  yesterday's  excur- 
sion where  I  halted  long  enough  to  make 


go  A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice 

some  memoranda  of  a  cluster  of  mooring 
piles  with  the  round  dome  of  the  Salute  in 
the  distance. 

"  No  ?  Bah  !  Certainly  not  ;  how  stupid 
of  me  !  "  (All  this  in  his  face,  for  his  na- 
tive tongue  is  still  unintelligible  to  me.) 
"That  would  be  impossible.  Then  how 
about  this.?"  And  then  follows  another 
arrangement  of  saucers  for  sails,  lumps  of 
sugar  for  steps,  and  other  breakfast  acces- 
sories illustrating  minor  details  which  make 
it  very  plain  to  me  that  the  spot  in  his 
mind  now  is  lower  down  the  Riva  where 
the  fishermen  tie  their  boats  to  the  stair- 
case. This,  after  all,  is  really  the  only 
spot  in  Venice  worthy  the  consideration  of 
a  great  painter  on  so  charming  a  morning 
as  this. 

But  I  did  not  want  the  staircase,  and  In- 
genio  saw  it.  I  did,  however,  want  another 
cup  of  coffee,  and  this  he  brought  me. 

But  where  to  go,  and  what  to  paint !  I 
have  learned  never  to  attempt  to  solve  any 
difficulties  in  Venice.  I  fall  back  on  my 
gondolier. 

A  section  of  the  Venetian  Committee  of 
Finance  followed  me  to  my  gondola,  and  a 
modern  Dives  added  one  half  of  one  penny 


A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice  91 

to  his  wordly  store  steadying  my  boat. 
Ingenio  bent  to  his  oar,  we  glided  along 
the  edge  of  the  quay,  and  I  looked  back. 
My  gondolier  had  solved  the  problem.  I 
would  paint  the  wine  shop.  My  eye  had 
caught  the  flat  quay  protected  by  the  mar- 
ble railing,  the  glare  of  the  white  wall 
against  the  deep  blue  sky,  the  arching 
stairway,  the  soft,  filmy  outline  of  the 
Salute  in  the  distance,  and,  centring  the 
whole  composition,  the  brilliant-colored 
awning  casting  its  rich  shadow,  in  which 
were  dotted  the  groups  of  wealthy  capital- 
ists with  the  unlimitable  bank  account  of 
interminable  leisure. 

An  obliging  row  of  houses  served  as  an 
umbrella  and  cast  a  grateful  shadow,  upon 
the  edge  of  which  I  planted  my  easel.  In 
five  minutes  more  I  was  working  away 
with  as  much  gusto  as  if  I  had  planned  to 
paint  this  identical  wine  shop  weeks  be- 
fore. 

The  usual  Venetian  crowd  collected  and 
looked  over  my  shoulder.  The  woman 
carrying  her  two  copper  water-pails  slung 
to  a  light  yoke,  and  which  she  had  filled 
at  the  fountain  in  the  Piazzetta  adjoining  ; 
the  girls   stringing  beads  ;    the  fishermen 


92  A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice 

carrying  their  nets  to  the  boats  moored 
below  ;  another  painter  with  his  trap  —  eti- 
quette forbids  him  the  privilege  of  the 
masses,  but  all  the  same  I  am  conscious 
that  he  slackens  his  pace  and  edges  as 
near  as  he  can,  and  tiptoes  himself  for  a 
glance  ;  the  tangle  -  haired  children  with 
abbreviated  clothing  and  faces  like  Ra- 
phael's cherubs  ;  the  old  hags  shuffling 
along  in  their  heelless  shoes  ;  the  fat  priest 
in  his  sandals,  and  the  pretty  flower-girl  in 
a  costume  not  her  own, — all  these  types 
are  well  known  to  the  painter  in  Venice. 

Out  on  the  canal  I  hear  the  shouts  of 
the  gondoliers  and  boatmen.  My  limited 
knowledge  of  their  language  prevents  my 
understanding  what  the  controversy  is  all 
about,  but  all  the  boatmen  on  both  sides  of 
the  water  have  a  voice  in  it,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced from  the  way  in  which  they  em- 
phasize some  of  their  expressions  that  their 
dialect  is  punctuated  by  a  very  choice  va- 
riety of  profanity. 

In  the  midst  of  this  Babel,  which  is  sud- 
denly increased  by  the  arrival  of  a  number 
of  fruit  and  fish  venders,  I  hear  a  strain  of 
music,  sung  with  such  a  full,  free,  whole- 
souled  sort  of  a  voice  that  it  drowns  all 


A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice  g^ 

other   sounds    and   instantly    catches    my 
ear  :  — 

"  Jammo  jammo  neoppa  jammo  ja." 

It  is  a  Neapolitan  song  very  popular  in 
Venice  this  summer. 

Over  the  bridge  it  comes,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment more  I  catch  sight  of  the  singer  as  he 
mounts  the  steps.  First  his  red  cap 
perched  on  the  back  of  his  head,  crowning 
a  mass  of  jet-black  hair  ;  then  his  sun- 
burned face,  blue  shirt  open  from  the 
throat  to  the  waist,  red  sash,  and  white 
trousers  ;  and  then,  as  he  descends  on  my 
side  of  the  bridge,  I  notice  that  he  is  bare- 
footed. A  roar  of  laughter  greets  him  as 
he  halts  at  the  wine  shop,  and  follows  him 
as  he  makes  his  way  towards  the  crowd 
around  my  easel.  Before  he  reaches  me 
he  breaks  out  again  :  — 

"Jammo  jammo  iieoppa  jammo  ja. 
Funiculi  Funicula  Funiculi  Funicula." 

Everybody  about  me  welcomes  him. 
The  flower-girl  gives  him  a  rose,  and  one 
of  the  girls  stringing  beads  a  kiss  ;  the  old 
woman  a  scolding,  at  which  he  laughs  and 
makes  a  grimace,  which  instantly  puts  her 
in  a  good  humor  again.  As  he  nears  my 
easel  he  picks  up  a  child,  pinches  it,  and. 


g4  A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice 

when  it  cries,  kisses  it  and  puts  it  down. 
Then  he  plants  himself  immediately  in  front 
of  me,  completely  hiding  my  view,  and 
cranes  his  neck  trying  to  see  my  sketch 
upside  down.  He  is  not  impertinent,  or 
rude,  or  aggressive  ;  he  only  wants  to  see 
what  is  going  on. 

I  mildly  expostulate,  and  the  crowd 
break  out  against  him  in  a  chorus  ;  and 
when  he  cannot  be  made  to  understand 
that  he  is  very  much  in  my  way  and  very 
much  out  of  his,  Ingenio  turns  up  and  leads 
him  gently  to  the  rear.  Then  he  sees  it 
all,  laughs  until  the  quay  rings,  pats  me  on 
the  back,  and  apologizes  like  a  gentleman. 

Before  I  can  reply  he  dodges  into  a  hall- 
way opposite,  hauls  out  a  great  seine, 
spreads  it  on  the  marble  flagging  of  the  Pi- 
azzetta,  and  falls  to  mending  it  with  a  will, 
singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  stop- 
ping every  few  moments  to  argue  with  the 
girl  who  is  making  lace  behind  her  pot  of 
flowers  in  the  balcony  over  the  way,  or 
chaff  some  gondolier  landing  at  the  quay 
on  his  left,  or  send  some  witticism  flying 
after  a  passer-by,  to  the  intense  delight  of 
the  whole  community. 

This  went  on  for  hours,  I  painting  quietly. 


A  Summer's  Day  in  Venice  g^ 

and  this  breezy,  happy-hearted,  bare-footed, 
sunburned,  rosy-cheeked  fisherman  keeping 
the  whole  place  alive  and  awake.  Finally, 
he  gathered  up  the  net  just  as  I  finished 
washing  my  brushes,  stowed  it  away  in  his 
boat  near  by,  waved  his  hand  to  me,  re- 
turned to  his  house  and  brought  out  a  ta- 
ble, two  chairs,  and  a  bottle  of  Chianti 
wine,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
crossed  to  where  I  was  packing  my  sketch- 
trap,  strapped  it  himself,  locked  his  arm 
through  mine,  and  led  me  to  his  table,  his 
honest,  handsome  face  saying  as  plain  as 
could  be  told,  "  Come,  comrade,  we  have 
had  a  hard  day's  work  ;  now  let  us  have  a 
bottle  together."     And  we  did. 

I  never  see  a  bottle  of  Chianti  but  I 
think  of  this  sunny  fisherman,  and  I  never 
drink  one  but  I  pledge  him  a  bumper.  I 
send  him  my  greeting  over  the  sea,  and 
long  life  to  him,  and  a  wife  to  love  him,  and 
plenty  of  fish,  and  plenty  of  Chianti,  and 
one  bottle  always  for  me  !  I  owe  him  my 
thanks  for  his  hearty  laugh,  and  his  song, 
and  his  courtesy,  and  for  his  share  in  mak- 
ing this  summer's  day  the  pleasantest  I 
spent  in  Venice. 


THE  TOP  OF  A  GONDOLA 


While  I 
am  at  break- 
f  a  s  t      this 


morning    a 


fleet  of 
lighter  boats 
sweep  slowly  past  my  garden  and  moor  to 
a  cluster  of  piles  off  the  Dogana. 

I  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  this  pic- 
turesque flotilla  for  some  time,  and  Ingenio 
knows  it.  Before  I  have  half  finished  my 
omelette  he  arrives  off  the  marble  steps, 
and  rounds  in  his  gondola,  steadying  her 
against  the  incoming  tide  with  one  hand 
and  waving  his  congratulations  with  the 
other. 

One  peculiarity  of  this  gentle,  loyal  soul 
is  the  intense  personal  interest  he  takes  in 
my  affairs.  When  I  am  satisfied  with  my 
day's  work  Ingenio  is  bubbling  over  with 
happiness,  and  hums  to  himself  as  he  rows 
along  some  old  song,  or  rather  one  line  of 


The  Top  of  a  Gondola  gy 

it.  When  my  sky  becomes  muddy,  or  my 
shadows  opaque,  and  I  irritable  and  dis- 
gusted (what  painter  is  not  so  sometimes  ?), 
poor  Ingenio  pulls  aways  mute  and  sad, 
and  comes  forward  every  now  and  then 
with  an  anxious  expression  upon  his  face 
and  watches  the  sketch  as  if  it  was  a  sick 
child  and  I  the  physician  upon  whom  its 
life  depended. 

This  morning  he  is  as  happy  over  the 
arrival  of  these  golden-winged  boats  from 
beyond  the  Lido  as  if  he  was  my  man  Fri- 
day crying  a  sail !  and  I  his  shipwrecked 
master. 

In  five  minutes  we  are  off,  and  running 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Salute.  As  it  is 
too  hot  to  work  in  the  sun,  moored  to  a 
spile  on  the  Canal,  I  direct  Ingenio  to  the 
broad  landing  of  the  church,  hoping  to  find 
some  spot  where  I  can  put  up  my  easel 
and  umbrella  and  paint  the  group  of  light- 
ers in  comfort  and  at  my  leisure. 

I  convey  this  information  with  my  um- 
brella-staff very  much  as  a  Londoner  di- 
rects and  stops  a  hansom  cab  with  his 
walking-stick.  Ingenio  sees  the  point  (of 
the  staff,  of  course)  over  the  edge  of  my 
gondola's  awning,  darts   in  among  a  num- 


p8  The  Top  of  a  Gondola 

ber  of  fishing  boats,  and  immediately  be- 
gins a  search  in  the  pavement  of  the  Piaz- 
zettafor  a  crack  wide  and  deep  enough  in 
which  to  anchor  my  umbrella  and  still  keep 
sight  of  the  lighters. 

This  combination  proved  difficult.  There 
were  cracks  enough,  and  views  enough  ; 
the  problem  was  to  utilize  them  together. 

It  is  true,  there  was  also  a  long,  cool 
shadow  slanting  across  the  marble  pave- 
ment which  would  serve  as  an  umbrella, 
and  which  for  a  time  was  tempting,  but 
sober  second  thought  convinced  me  that 
it  could  not  be  depended  on.  It  was  not 
the  shadow  of  the  great  dome  of  the  Sa- 
lute, but  of  one  of  its  small  towers ;  and 
the  sun,  in  his  mad  climb  to  the  zenith, 
was  fast  melting  it  up. 

But  if  the  shadow  failed  me  Ingenio  did 
not,  for  at  that  instant  he  returned  from  a 
search  after  narrow  cracks  with  news  of 
some  wide  openings.  These  proved  to  be 
half  a  dozen  or  more  felsi  laid  up  for  the 
summer  on  the  far  side  of  the  landing, 
under  which  I  could  crawl  and  so  escape 
the  heat. 

The  discovery  so  pleased  my  faithful 
gondolier  that,  without  waiting  for  any  in- 


The  Top  of  a  Gondola  gg 

striictions  from  me,  he  picked  up  the  traps 
and  deposited  them  in  front  of  a  row  of 
great  black  beetles  sprawled  out  on  the 
pavement,  apparently  sunning  themselves. 
On  closer  inspection  they  proved  to  be  the 
tops  of  gondolas  used  in  wet  and  wintry 
weather,  whose  owners,  having  no  imme- 
diate use  for  them,  had  laid  them  by  for  a 
rainy  day  like  their  extra  pennies. 

I  inspected  each  one  in  turn,  found  one 
larger  than  the  others  commanding  a  cap- 
ital view  of  the  boats,  and  crawled  in  at 
once. 

It  made  a  delightful  studio,  was  just  high 
enough  and  wide  enough,  and  had  two 
windows  on  each  side,  with  sliding  shut- 
ters and  sash  like  a  cab's,  which  proved 
admirable  in  managing  the  light  on  my 
canvas. 

The  result  was  that  I  spent  the  whole 
day  under  its  shelter,  and  finally  completed 
my  picture,  Ingenio  bringing  me,  from  one 
of  the  fishing  boats,  some  broiled  fish  and 
a  pot  of  coffee  for  luncheon,  which  I 
shared  with  him,  he  occupying  the  adjoin- 
ing felse,  and  pushing  his  cup  under  mine 
for  me  to  fill. 

When  the  sun  went  down  and  I  began 


100  The  Top  of  o  Gondola 

packing  up  my  traps,  a  number  of  gon- 
doliers arrived,  one  of  whom,  a  forbidding- 
looking  fellow  with  a  shock  of  red  hair, 
informed  Ingenio  that  the  felse  belonged 
to  his  gondola,  and  that  he  demanded  eight 
lira  for  the  use  of  it.  On  my  replying  that 
he  could  not  earn  one  quarter  of  that 
amount  with  his  whole  gondola,  and  that 
one  lira,  which  I  handed  him,  would  be 
more  than  a  reasonable  rent  for  his  station- 
ary sunshade,  at  best  but  half  b.  gondola,  he 
flew  into  a  great  rage,  and  tossed  the  lira 
back  to  Ingenio.  Then  finding  that  I  paid 
no  further  attention  to  him  and  moved  off, 
he  collected  a  crowd  of  gondoliers,  who, 
uniting  their  cries  to  his,  jumped  into  their 
boats,  and  followed  my  own  to  the  water 
stairs  of  my  lodgings,  the  whole  mob  shout- 
ing and  gesticulating  wildly. 

There  we  were  met  by  the  porter.  He 
is  rather  a  thin  gentleman  with  a  high  fore- 
head, and  is  proverbial  for  his  politeness. 
As  his  entire  life  is  spent  on  the  front  steps 
helping  people  in  and  out  of  their  gondolas, 
it  is  deserved.  He  performed  that  service 
for  me,  and  then  turned  upon  the  howling 
mob. 

It  was  simply  delightful  to  see  the  way 


The  Top  of  a  Gondola  loi 

he  handled  them.  They  evidently  knew 
him,  and  respected  either  his  authority  or 
patronage,  — the  latter  probably. 

During  the  discussion  I  sought  the  quiet 
of  the  garden,  followed  by  Ingenio,  who 
vented  his  indignation  upon  the  whole  crew, 
being  especially  severe  upon  the  gentle- 
man with  the  auburn  locks,  whom  he  de- 
scribed by  gestures  of  infinite  disgust. 

Before  long  the  porter  sought  me  out, 
and  explained  that  these  gondoliers  were 
a  rough  set,  and  that  if  I  valued  my  peace 
of  mind  while  in  Venice  I  ought  to  make 
some  settlement  of  the  affair,  and  either 
pay  the  amount  demanded  or  explain  the 
circumstances  to  the  other  gondoliers. 

At  this  juncture  an  idea  occurred  to  me 
which  I  proceeded  to  put  into  practice. 

I  would  invite  the  plaintiff  and  half  a 
dozen  of  his  confreres  into  the  garden,  in- 
stall the  porter  as  chief  justice,  and  argue' 
the  case  before  him. 

This  programme  was  immediately  car- 
ried out,  —  the  porter  acting  in  the  double 
capacity  of  interpreter  and  judge. 

The  gondolier  opened  the  case.  He 
stated  that  he  had  been  at  work  all  day, 
and  being  too  poor  to  pay   some  one  to 


102  The  Top  of  a  Gondola 

watch  his  fels6  had  left  it  unguarded.  On 
his  return,  in  the  evening,  he  had  surprised 
this  rich  painter  as  he  was  leaving  it,  and 
who,  after  occupying  it  all  day,  had  refused 
to  pay  for  the  privilege,  except  in  a  coin  of 
so  little  value  that  it  was  almost  an  insult 
to  the  profession  to  offer  it. 

On  the  cross-examination  it  was  shown 
that  at  this  season  of  the  year  there  were 
several  hundred  felsi  decorating  the  vacant 
quays,  landings,  and  piazzas  of  Venice 
(there  being  no  back  yards  in  which  to 
store  them) ;  that  a  gondola  had  a  summer 
and  a  winter  top,  consequently  only  one 
was  or  could  be  used  at  the  same  time; 
and  that  now,  in  summer  time,  the  felse  I 
I  occupied  was  about  of  as  much  use  to  the 
plaintiff  as  two  umbrellas  on  a  rainy  day. 

It  was  also  shown  that  the  gross  earnings 
of  a  gondolier  and  a  gondola  combined  av- 
erage less  than  three  lira  a  day,  and  that 
there  was  no  instance  on  record  in  Venice 
or  elsewhere  in  which  any  gondolier  had 
ever  collected  any  large  or  small  amount 
of  money  for  the  use  of  a  felse  for  any 
period  of  time,  long  or  short. 

On  the  re-direct,  the  plaintiff  wanted  the 
judge  and  jury  to  remember  that  no  bar- 


The  Top  of  a  Gjiidola  lo^ 

srain  had  been  made  for  the  use  of  the 
felse  ;  that  accordingly  he  had  a  right  to 
charsfe  what  he  considered  would  com- 
pensate  him,  especially  since  there  existed 
no  tariff  for  laid-by  felsi ;  and  that,  in  de- 
fiance of  his  rights  of  ownership,  I  had 
forcibly  entered  and  taken  possession. 

The  effect  of  this  last  shot  on  the  jury 
was  very  pronounced.  They  looked  at  each 
other  wisely,  and  nodded  concurrence. 

It  was  now  my  turn,  and  as  I  was  con- 
ducting my  own  case  I  summed  up  for  the 
defense. 

I  asked  the  jury  whether  Italy  was  not 
now  free,  and  whether  Venice  was  not  a 
city  free  to  her  citizens  and  to  the  stran- 
gers within  her  gates.  I  reminded  them 
that  the  days  of  Austrian  tyranny  were 
days  of  the  past,  and  that  any  Italian  who 
would  wish  to  renew  them  would  be  a 
traitor  to  his  country. 

In  those  days  a  tax  was  placed  upon  the 
people  of  Venice  so  severe  that  the  priva- 
tions it  caused  were  still  fresh  in  their 
memories. 

Now,  thanks  to  a  humane  government 
under  a  wise  king,  all  such  onerous  bur- 
dens   had    been    lifted    from    the   people. 


104  77;^  7(9/)  of  a  Gondola 

Venice  had  a  free  harbor,  free  canals,  free 
churches,  piazzas,  and  landings. 

How  came  it,  then,  that  this  plaintiff, 
representing  so  loyal  a  body  of  hardwork- 
ing citizens  as  the  gondoliers,  should  seek 
to  bring  back  the  days  of  tyranny  and 
wrong  ? 

The  king  had  said  these  piazzas  were 
free,  and  under  this  ruling  I,  a  stranger, 
in  the  peaceful  pursuit  of  my  profession, 
had  taken  up  my  position  in  one  of  them. 
I  had  really  occupied  the  pavement,  not  the 
felse  [sensation]  ;  and  if  its  top  happened 
to  be  over  me  and  so  shaded  me  from  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  that  circumstance  gave  the 
plaintiff  no  more  ground  for  charging  me 
eight  lira  for  its  use  than  it  did  the  owner 
of  a  palace,  who  happened  to  own  the 
shady  side  of  the  street,  and  so  charged 
passers-by  for  the  relief  it  afforded  them. 

This  settled  it.  The  judge  decided  in 
favor  of  the  defendant,  maintaining  that 
felsi  and  Venice  were  free,  and  that  the 
only  charge  which  could  reasonably  be 
made  would  be  against  the  gondolier  for 
obstructing  the  painter  and  annoying  him 
while  engaged  in  the  peaceful  pursuit  of 
his  profession. 


The  Top  of  a  Gondola  lo^ 

Ingenio  afterwards  reported  that  the 
verdict  was  entirely  satisfactory  to  the 
jury,  and  also  to  the  gondolier,  who  had  not 
seen  it  in  that  light  before. 

When  I  saw  him  the  next  day  and 
handed  him  again  the  one  lira,  he  touched 
his  hat  and  said,  "  Gracias,  signor." 

Since  this  little  incident  I  have  been 
more  than  ever  impressed  with  the  majesty 
of  the  law,  which  somehow  or  other  always 
seems  to  protect  me  in  these  my  wander- 
ings! 


v 


BEHIND  THE  RIALTO 


I  AM  at 
work  painting 
an  old  bridge 
spanning  a 
narrow  canal 
which  flows 
behind  the  Rialto.  It  is  the  sole  depend- 
ence of  a  crooked  crevice  of  a  street  which 
it  helps  over  and  across  a  sluggish  water 
way  and  into  a  small  open  square  facing  a 
church.  This  bridge  also  provides  shop 
space  for  a  vender  of  cheap  pottery,  whose 
wares  of  green  and  red  glisten  in  the  sun, 
supplying  a  spot  of  brilliant  color  to  my 
composition.  I  know  this  church  and  its 
quaint  interior,  and  I  also  know  the  cafe 
next  to  it,  for  here  Ingenio  and  I  often 
breakfast.  It  is  an  unpretentious  place,  but 
the  coffee  is  always  good,  and  sometimes 
the  landlord  serves  a  cutlet  sliced  quite 
thin  and  smothered  in  an  inviting  sauce. 
This  morning  I   prefer  breakfasting  in 


Behind  the  Rial  to  loy 

*»; 

my  gondola,  and  so  send  Ingenio  for  coffee 
and  whatever  else  he  can  bring  me  from 
a  larder  rarely  overstocked. 

If  you  have  never  breakfasted  in  a  gon- 
dola moored  under  the  windows  of  an  old 
palace,  on  its  cool  side,  with  your  curtains 
drawn  back,  the  water  gurgling  about  you 
and  reflecting  the  thousand  tints  of  marble 
walls,  white  sails,  and  blue  skies,  I  com- 
mend it  to  you  as  an  experience  which, 
once  enjoyed,  you  will  never  forget. 

When  Ingenio  returns  with  the  coffee 
he  brings  me  a  message  from  the  landlord, 
"  that  he  is  cooking  a  cutlet,  and  will  send 
it  to  the  bridge."  Later  on,  in  looking 
from  between  m)^  curtains,  I  see  a  pale- 
faced  child,  scarce  ten  years  of  age,  carry- 
ing between  her  outstretched  hands  a  cov- 
ered dish.  I  notice,  also,  that  Ingenio 
helps  her  carefully  down  the  slippery  steps 
of  the  landing,  relieves  her  of  the  cutlet, 
and  when  she  hesitates  and  is  timid  about 
returning,  picks  her  up  gently  in  his  arms, 
and  places  her  safely  on  the  quay  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  crevice  of  a  street,  through 
which  she  disappears  waving  her  hand. 

In  my  experience  gondoliers  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  exhibiting  such  watchful  care 


io8  Behind  the  Rialto 

over  the  youth  of  Venice,  and  so  I  ask  In- 
genio,  in  our  sign  language,  now  quite 
well  understood  between  us,  if  the  child 
belongs  to  him. 

The  old  man  smiles  sadly,  and  a  far- 
away look  comes  into  his  eyes  ;  then  he 
shakes  his  head. 

The  cutlet  and  sketch  finished,  the  gon- 
dola is  headed  up  the  canal,  and  Ingenio 
and  I  begin  our  daily  search  for  good  bric- 
a-brac  at  poor  prices.  To-day  I  want  a 
staff,  or  boat-hook,  similar  to  one  I  saw 
yesterday  in  the  hands  of  a  Venetian  gen- 
tleman of  unlimited  leisure,  who  used  it  in 
steadying  the  gondola  of  an  Englishman  of 
unlimited  means,  who  upon  alighting  im- 
mediately purchased  it.  It  was  studded  all 
over  with  copper  coins  of  various  dates  and 
diameters  nailed  to  the  wood,  a  kind  of 
portable  savings  bank,  and  was  altogether 
a  very  curious  and  interesting  exhibit  of 
Venetian  life. 

Ingenio  thinks  he  knows  a  gondolier 
who  may  still  own  one.  He  is  to  be  found 
at  the  right-hand  landing  of  the  Rialto. 
So  we  twist  our  way  in  and  out  of  the  nar- 
row water  ways,  and  under  many  bridges, 
and  then  through  the  broad  water  of  the 


Behind  the  Rial  to  log 

Grand  Canal,  spanned  by  the  famous  arch. 
But  Insrenio's  friend  could  not  be  found  at 
the  landing,  or  anywhere  else  in  the  vicin- 
ity, so  we  try  another  bridge  lower  down, 
and  not  finding  him  there,  give  up  the 
search  in  this  direction.  A  shop  near  the 
fish-market,  another  in  one  of  the  streets 
near  the  Piazzetta,  and  a  fisherman's  house 
above  it,  were  next  visited  without  success. 
Then  Ingenio  tells  me  he  thinks  he  can 
find  a  staff  near  his  own  home,  but  a  short 
distance  away.  Might  he  turn  the  gondola 
into  the  canal  to  our  left  .' 

He  had  often  before  asked  me  to  visit 
his  home.  At  one  time,  it  was  because  of 
a  cafe  opposite  his  house  where  they  made 
an  excellent  omelette  ;  again,  it  was  a  cab- 
inet-maker, who  kept  his  shop  near  where 
he  lived,  and  who  had  some  old  engravings 
in  black  frames.  To-day,  it  is  this  much 
sought  for  staff. 

Until  now  either  want  of  time  or  some 
more  interesting  excursion  had  always  pre- 
vented my  consenting,  and,  when  I  again 
refuse,  the  same  sad  expression  I  often  see 
passes  over  his  face,  and  so,  to  please  him, 
I  nod  my  head.  A  few  quick  strokes 
bring  us  to  an  angle  in  the  canal  running 


iio  Behind  the  Rial  to 

behind  the  Rialto,  and  quite  near  where  I 
had  breakfasted  in  the  morning. 

A  pleasant-faced  woman,  prematurely 
old,  comes  down  a  flight  of  steps  built 
under  a  culvert-shaped  arch,  and  holds  the 
boat  to  the  lower  step.  It  is  Ingenio's 
wife.  I  follow  her  under  the  arch,  up  a 
tottering  flight  of  steps,  and  into  a  small, 
scrupulously  clean  room  with  high  ceiling. 
It  is  their  living  room,  and,  like  all  Vene- 
tian kitchens,  has  its  fire-place  built  out 
from  the  wall,  while  on  either  side  of  the 
raised  hearth,  two  small  windows,  about 
one  foot  square,  look  out  on  the  canal. 
The  shelf  over  the  hearth,  and  the  wall 
above  it,  shine  with  well-polished  brass  and 
copper  pans.  White  curtains  soften  the 
glare  of  the  sunlight.  Some  pictures  of 
the  Holy  Mother,  a  cheap  crucifix,  and  a 
few  articles  of  furniture  complete  the  inte- 
rior. Ingenio  enters,  having  moored  the 
gondola,  gives  me  the  best  chair,  draws  the 
curtains  that  I  may  see  the  view  of  the 
Grand  Canal  and  the  Rialto,  officiates  as 
sign-interpreter  between  me  and  his  wife, 
and  then  disappears  into  an  adjoining  room, 
leaving  the  door  ajar.  The  good  wife 
rises   quickly    and    closes   it    behind  him. 


Behind  the  Rialto  1 1 1 

As  she  regains  her  seat  she  says  some- 
thing to  me  in  Italian  which  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. 

In  a  moment  more  the  door  reopens 
and  Ingenio  enters,  carrying  in  his  arms 
a  pale,  hollow-cheeked  child,  about  ten 
years  of  age,  who  looks  at  me  wonderingly 
with  her  great  round  eyes.  One  hand  is 
wound  around  her  father's  neck,  her  thin 
fingers  lost  in  his  bushy  gray  beard.  The 
other  holds  a  short  crutch.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  tender  way  with  which  the  old 
man  placed  her  on  a  low  stool  at  his  side,  ca- 
ressing her  hair,  holding  fast  her  hand,  and 
talking  to  her  in  a  low  undertone  in  his 
soft  Italian  ;  nor  the  tremor  in  his  voice 
when  he  leaned  over  to  me  and  said,  point- 
ing to  his  crippled  daughter  :  — 

"This  one  belongs  to  me." 

It  was  all  the  child  he  had,  poor  fellow. 
She  filled  his  heart  full  with  her  bright 
face  and  loving  ways,  and  although  she 
was  his  greatest  sorrow,  he  was  proud  of 
her,  and  proud  that  I  had  seen  her.  Sev- 
eral years  ago  she  had  fallen  from  one  of 
the  bridges,  struck  a  passing  boat,  and 
broken  her  thigh.  Since  then  she  had 
lived  in  these  two  rooms. 


112  Behind  the  Riallo 

I  understood  now  why  he  lifted  ashore 
so  tenderly  my  little  waitress  with  the  cut- 
let. 

When  I  regained  my  gondola  I  re- 
minded Ingenio  of  the  object  of  our  search. 
Was  the  man  at  home  ?  Had  he  seen  the 
staff  ?  Would  he  bring  it  to  the  boat  ? 
He  hung  his  head,  and  did  not  move. 

Then  it  all  came  out.  There  was  no 
man  with  a  gondola  staff.  There  had 
been  no  cabinet-maker  next  door,  with 
rare  old  engravings  in  black  frames,  nor 
any  cafes  with  toothsome  omelettes. 

It  was  Giulietta  he  wanted  me  to  see. 

Patient,  loyal,  gentle,  old  gondolier ! 
W^ith  me  you  will  forever  be  a  part  of 
sunny  skies,  old  palaces,  and  the  silver 
shimmer  of  the  Lido,  the  bright  sails  of  red 
and  gold,  the  cool  of  dim,  incense-laden 
churches,  and  crooked  canals  under  quaint 
bridges. 

Even  now  I  hear  your  warning  cry  as 
you  round  the  sharp  corners  of  the  canals. 
But  I  love  best  to  remember  you  with 
that  pale-faced  child  in  your  arms. 


UP  A  BELFRY  IN  BAVARIA 


I  AM  aware 
that  this  is  rather 
an  indefinite  bel- 
fry, for  Bavaria 
covers  a  wide  ter- 
ritory, and  bel- 
fries are  by  no 
means  rare  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  this 
is  as  near  as  any 
one  will  ever  get  to  the  exact  locality  of 
this  particular  belfry  from  any  information 
which  I  will  furnish,  and  there  are  good 
reasons  for  my  reticence. 

This  belfry  caps  the  quaint  tower  of  a 
curious  old  Franciscan  monastery.  It  is 
built  of  red  sandstone,  seamed  and  scarred 
by  the  weathers  of  many  centuries,  and 
barnacled  all  over  with  gray  lichen  and 
green  moss.  It  carries  within  its  open 
arches  the  remnant  of  a  chime  of  bells 
which   arc    never    rung,    and   overlooks   a 


114  Up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria 

clock  which  ran  down  some  hundred  years 
ago,  and  has  never  been  wound  up  since. 
Backed  up  against  the  wall  of  this  monas- 
tery is  a  small  church  or  chapel.  Adjoin- 
ing the  church  is  a  cloister,  surrounded  by 
a  high  wall,  on  one  side  of  which  is  an 
open  gate  or  archway,  the  whole  sur- 
mounted by  a  high  peaked  roof. 

I  had  walked  up  from  the  lower  part  of 
the  town,  where  some  quaint  houses  lean- 
ing over  a  narrow  canal,  reminding  one  of 
two  old  crones  gossiping  across  a  street, 
had  tempted  me  to  paint  them,  and  catch- 
ing sight  of  this  gate,  I  loitered  in  aim- 
lessly. Under  the  groined  arches  of  the 
cloister  were  sheltered  idle  carts  and 
wagons.  From  the  sculptured  tombs  in 
the  pavement  many  restless  feet  had  well- 
nigh  effaced  all  traces  of  the  graven  names 
of  the  holy  saints  who  lay  buried  beneath. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  modern  Protestant- 
ism had  no  respect  for  the  traditions  of 
the  Holy  Church. 

Crossing  the  cloister  with  its  vistas  of 
open  squares  and  small  culvert-shaped 
arches  running  under  rickety  houses,  I 
passed  a  group  of  heavy  columns  support- 
ing a  low  roof,  the  whole  forming  a  vaulted 


up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria  1 1^ 

room.  A  grated  window  at  one  end  cast 
a  dim  light  over  an  old  woman  washing. 
She  gazed  at  me  solemnly,  and  pointed  to 
a  door  in  the  wall.  Thinking  that  this 
was  another  way  out,  I  turned  the  knob, 
and  found  myself  in  the  refectory  of  the 
monastery  and  confronted  by  a  kindly- 
faced  old  friar  and  a  strong  smell  of  cook- 
ery. It  was  some  time  before  I  could 
make  him  understand  how  I  came  there 
and  by  what  mistake,  for  my  knowledge  of 
German  is  only  that  of  a  traveler.  My 
sketch-book,  however,  settled  it.  He 
turned  over  the  leaves  slowly,  recognized  a 
pencil  memorandum  of  the  gate,  took  my 
hat  from  my  hand,  hung  it  on  one  of  a  row 
of  wooden  pegs,  and  motioning  me  to  a 
seat,  dipped  a  long  perforated  iron  ladle 
into  a  steaming  caldron,  dished  out  some 
boiled  potatoes  and  shreds  of  meat,  and 
placed  them  on  a  plate  before  me.  I 
thanked  him  and  ate  my  rations  like  a 
friar. 

Then  I  followed  him  through  the  wide, 
bare,  white-washed  rooms  of  the  ground 
floor,  and  into  the  small  church,  and  such 
a  shabby  old  church,  too  !  Cheap  silvered 
candlesticks,   cheaper  cotton  lace    on  the 


ii6  Up  a  Bt'lfiy  in  Bavaria 

altar-cloth,  paper  flowers  in  china  vases, 
ugly  modern  lamps,  German  lithographs 
edged  with  gilt  paper  supplying  the  places 
of  Raphaels  and  Correggios,  and  offering 
candles,  none  of  which  were  burning,  fast- 
ened to  iron  spikes,  from  which  flowed 
streams  of  tallow  telling  of  former  prayers. 
All  indicated  bitter  poverty. 

Even  the  wrinkled  old  friar  seemed  a 
part  of 'the  place,  —  sad,  hollow-eyed,  and 
barefooted,  his  waist  bound  with  a  cord 
from  which  hung  a  wooden  cross,  and  he 
himself  as  much  a  tear-stained  relic  of  the 
past  as  the  walls  over  which  the  damp  of 
ages  had  trickled.  Poor  old  fellow  !  I  can 
see  him  now  looking  at  me  wistfully  and 
standing  patiently  as  I  examined  all  he 
showed  me. 

Finally  he  said  to  me,  "  English .? "  "  No," 
I  replied,  "  American."  He  dropped  the 
iron  hoop  which  held  his  keys,  and  the 
tears  started  to  his  eyes.  "  American,  my 
son .? "  Then  he  took  my  hand  and  by 
many  signs  and  gestures  made  me  under- 
stand that  my  country  was  the  future 
home  of  his  church  ;  that  Bavaria  in  the 
dim  past  had  seen  the  grandeur  and  splen- 
dor of  the  monastery,  which  had  once  been 


up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria  iiy 

heaped  full  of  riches,  and  had  once  been 
proud  of  its  power  and  prestige,  but  now 
she  had  turned  her  back  upon  it  and  had 
left  it  to  decay.  As  he  spoke  he  picked 
up  a  small  copper  censer,  poured  the  ashes 
out  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  sifted 
them  slowly  on  the  floor. 

I  encouraged  him  to  talk,  and  examined 
with  him  the  altar-screen  faced  with  a 
square  of  some  cheap  modern  fabric,  and 
asked  him  what  it  was  like  in  the  olden 
times.?  "Velvet  and  satin,  my  son,  and 
embroidery  of  gold  and  silver  ;  and  the 
lamps  all  solid  gold ;  the  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  paintings,  the  steps  of  the  altar 
with  fine  carpets  ;  and  the  Archbishop,  to 
whom  the  king  kneeled,  was  clothed  in 
lace  and  scarlet." 

By  this  time  we  had  circled  the  small 
church  and  reached  the  door,  but  I  was 
not  satisfied.  I  led  him  back  to  the  altar 
and  pointed  out  the  different  objects. 
Where  nozv  was  the  old  lace.'  Was  it 
stored  away  somewhere  and  only  shown  to 
travelers  }  He  shook  his  head  and  spread 
his  fingers  as  if  it  had  slipped  through 
them  years  before.  Candlesticks  }  Lamps  ? 
Censers  >     Still  the  same  mournful  shake. 


Ii8  Up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria 

All  gone.  About  the  silks  and  velvets  and 
embroideries  that  covered  the  face  of  the 
altar  ;  where  now  were  they  ?  He  simply 
cast  his  eyes  upward.  But  this  was  a  new 
piece  but  a  few  years  old  ;  what  was  done 
with  the  old  one  ?  A  gleam  of  intelligence 
shot  across  his  wrinkled  old  face,  and  one 
long,  thin  finger  rested  on  his  forehead. 
He  looked  at  me  searchingly  from  under 
his  bushy  gray  eyebrows,  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  led  the  way  back  through 
the  bare  wide  rooms  and  into  the  seething 
refectory,  and  up  to  a  row  of  hooks  from 
which  hung  keys  of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 
He  looked  them  over  carefully,  and  took 
down  a  great  hoop  linking  three  keys  to- 
gether, lighted  a  lantern,  and  I  followed 
him  into  the  vault-shaped  room,  past  the 
old  woman,  who  bowed  and  crossed  her- 
self, through  an  open  court,  from  which  I 
saw  the  belfry  with  the  silent  chimes,  and 
up  to  a  door  in  its  tower  heavily  grated 
with  iron. 

The  first  key  started  its  rusty  bolts,  then 
we  groped  our  way  up  a  mouldy  stone 
staircase,  the  friar  going  ahead  feeling  his 
way  and  holding  the  lantern  for  me  until 
we  reached  the  landing  of  the  first  story, 


up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria  i  ig 

which  I  noticed  was  level  with  the  roof  of 
the  monastery.  The  daylight  struggling 
in  through  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass 
begrimed  with  dirt  and  cobwebs  revealed 
another  door.  I  looked  through  its  grat- 
ings but  saw  nothing  but  an  empty  room. 
The  old  friar  pressed  his  shrunken  cheek 
against  the  bars,  gave  a  pleased  chuckle, 
unlocked  them,  and  pointed  to  a  pile  of  six 
wooden  altar  screens  leaning  against  the 
wall  and  half  buried  in  dust.  My  heart 
sank  within  me. 

Not  seeing  my  chagrin  he  stooped  over 
and  threw  down  the  first  screen.  A  cloud 
of  dust  arose  nearly  suffocating  me.  It 
proved  to  be  a  worm-eaten  frame  covered 
with  mouldy  canvas.  The  second,  the 
same  ;  the  third,  mere  shreds  of  worsted, 
with  patches  of  tinsel  lace  bearing  the  fig- 
ure of  the  cross  embroidered  in  faded 
green.  The  fourth  of  silk,  threadbare  and 
stained  with  the  droppings  of  many  can- 
dles. As  the  dust  cleared  away  from  each 
screen  the  old  fellow  would  look  anxiously 
in  my  face  for  approval.  The  fifth  —  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  the  fifth  took  my  breath 
away.  It  was  an  old  gold-colored  corded 
silk,  as  heavy  as  canvas,  and  covered  with 


I20  Up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria 

an  exquisite  embroidery  in  silk  and  silver 
without  a  break  or  flaw.  The  canvas 
backing  had  protected  it  from  the  damp, 
and  the  sixth  screen  against  the  wall  had 
saved  it  in  a  measure  from  the  grime  of 
years. 

I  broke  all  the  blades  of  my  knife  cut- 
ting this  precious  relic  of  the  seventeenth 
century  from  its  frame,  the  good  friar  on 
his  knees  meanwhile  holding  one  end  taut 
so  that  I  could  run  my  knife  close  to  the 
rusted  tacks. 

His  enthusiasm  was  delightful  as  he  read 
my  face,  for  the  discovery  was  evidently  as 
much  of  a  surprise  to  him  as  to  me.  "  Now 
I  would  believe  the  truth  of  all  the  stories 
of  the  magnificence  of  the  olden  times." 
And  then  he  lifted  it  tenderly  and  carried 
it  as  carefully  down  the  treacherous  stair- 
case as  if  it  had  been  blessed  by  the  Pope, 
and  spread  it  on  the  grass  in  the  sunlight. 

I  sat  down  upon  the  tomb  of  an  old  saint 
and  feasted  my  eyes. 

It  was  Italian,  without  doubt,  worked  in 
twisted  silk  and  silver  in  a  design  of  leaves 
anJ  flowers,  the  whole  in  delicate  tones  of 
pale  yellows,  pinks,  and  turquoise  blue. 
Soiled  and  stained,  of  course,  but  that  did 


up  a  Belfry  in  Bavaria  121 

not  trouble  me.  I  knew  a  little  French- 
woman near  St.  Cloud  who  could  take 
half  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread  and  with  it  work 
a  charm  upon  its  old  gold  background. 

Then  I  tried  a  charm  of  my  own  with 
some  new  gold  upon  the  palm  of  my  old 
friar.  To  my  surprise  he  refused  it.  "No, 
take  it  to  America.  They  would  appreciate 
it  there.  It  was  nothing  here,  —  all  dead, 
all  ashes,  all  forgotten."  Well,  then,  for 
the  poor  ?  Yes,  he  would  take  it  for  the 
poor.  There  were  plenty  of  them  always. 
He  would  give  the  money  to  the  bishop  for 
the  poor. 

As  he  pressed  my  hand  at  the  gate  his 
eyes  filled,  and  pointing  to  the  monastery 
he  said  slowly,  "  Never  here,  my  son.  In 
America." 

It  was  not  until  I  reached  my  lodgings 
with  my  prize  that  I  thought  of  the  sixth 
screen,  which  in  my  great  joy  I  had  neg- 
lected to  turn  down.  What  could  that 
have  been  ? 

This  question  I  am  not  yet  able  to  an- 
swer, and  until  I  am  I  shall  not  tell  any- 
body where  in  Bavaria  is  my  belfry. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


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